Deck the Holmes
by Domina Temporis
Summary: Another December Calendar of Awesomeness from Hades Lord of the Dead! Collected one-shot responses to user-submitted prompts. Enjoy. Updated Dec. 31
1. Chapter 1

From Madam'zelleGiry - Black velvet band

* * *

The staff at Whitehall tiptoed past Mycroft Holmes for the first week. Their fact-checker, if he could in fact be called such; his role was so unique as to defy naming, was notoriously reticent. He spoke to almost no one in the office, outside of performing his duties, and invited no intimacy. Even the most highly placed Ministers were apt to refer to him as "Mr. Holmes" in hushed, respectful voices.

After the first week, a few brave secretaries who spent more time around Mycroft Holmes's small, neat office dared to offer their sympathies on the death that had been splashed across every morning and evening paper for the past week.

On the whole, Mycroft wished they would stop. Quite apart from finding the constant interruption to his routine irritating, and the sympathy they offered frankly overbearing, it was a constant reminder of the lie he had to tell. It was surely bad enough that he had to read through the highly sensationalized newspaper accounts of his brother's demise in Switzerland – they were piled in a neat stack on his desk, all bearing headlines such as "Famed Detective Dies At Enemy's Hands!" "Britain's Greatest Crime Fighter Given the Drop at Last!" Even worse, he had to do so knowing that a small stack of telegrams from the "deceased" were stacked next to the newspapers, all full of instructions, pleas for money or letters of introduction, reports as to the state of affairs in Italy, and further instructions.

 _Confound it, Sherlock, could you not have found a less dramatic way to die than falling off a cliff?_ Mycroft thought wearily, as the third secretary in a row stuck his head into the office to give Mycroft his condolences. He finally packed away his things and headed to the Diogenes Club, where at least he would be assured of a good meal and blessed _silence._

It had been a week since Mycroft had last visited the Diogenes; a lapse that was met with incredulity from members who could not remember a day going by where Mycroft did not walk through the doors precisely at a quarter to five. As he took his usual seat with a sense of a return to normalcy, he became aware of being watched. He wondered for a brief moment if this is what Sherlock had felt like, prior to his meeting with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls before shaking his head. These flights of fancy were highly illogical and disturbing to his peace of mind. There were none of Moriarty's gang left, save the tiger hunter who was now chasing his brother across the Empire. At the moment, Mycroft rather thought they could chase each other to the shores of Australia if they wanted, and good riddance to them.

He looked up to see several members looking askance at him, and realized that was where this feeling must have come from. He wondered if he looked at all different, or if they were expecting him to do something unusual when he caught sight of one of the servers, dressed in his usual uniform, but with the addition of a black armband on his upper arm. Mycroft sighed. Of course. He had entirely forgotten he would be expected to mourn. Sherlock was – _is still_ , Mycroft reminded himself – his brother and his only immediate family. The standard high mourning would have to apply. He shook his head in exasperation; such a ridiculously formal custom, all because Her Majesty was incapable of moving on after the consort's death. Mycroft did not pretend to understand the motives behind it, but recognized the necessity of not causing any stir surrounding Sherlock's "death." All the proper forms would have to be attended to.

The next morning, Mycroft found himself in a shop which specialized in mourning attire rather than seated at his desk in Whitehall.

"May I help you, sir?" the young attendant asked.

"I find myself in need of mourning attire," Mycroft said. "An armband, perhaps, and the usual jet black cufflinks." He waved his hand carelessly, not caring how much money he would have to spend or what quality the items were. This was all for show, after all. A necessary ruse to ensure that no one would realize Sherlock was actually alive.

"We have these armbands," the attendant said, showing Mycroft a selection of black velvet armbands from a box. "Which-?"

"Yes, yes, any of those will do," Mycroft said impatiently. He found the act of picking out mourning for his brother more disturbing than he had thought, and had to continually remind himself that Sherlock was not dead. He did not remember finding it so difficult when their mother had died. Although she had passed away after a long illness, and both her rational sons had expected the outcome for months beforehand. Perhaps it was that he found using the forms of genuine grief for his brother's outlandish purposes to be distasteful, yes, that was it. As little as he may have understood it, Mycroft accepted that wearing mourning was a way to grieve a loss, and many people found it comforting. He should not be using it while he had no one to grieve. He was unsure if he should ever use it; he was uncomfortably aware that his own feelings did not run as deep as did those of others, and was unsure if he would be capable of mourning for Sherlock, if he were truly gone.

As if he needed a reminder of this, as he paid and began to leave, Mycroft nearly walked directly into Dr. Watson, who was perhaps the last person he wished to see at the moment. One look at the doctor's face told Mycroft all he needed to know. Dr. Watson was thinner than he had been, more haggard. There were circles under his eyes that said he had not slept, probably since that day at the falls. His eyes were dull and his step was heavy. Mycroft actually attempted to hide his own armband, now that he was faced with the image of true grief.

"Mr. Holmes, forgive me, I did not see you there," Dr. Watson said tiredly. Mycroft thought that this was the surest sign of something wrong; he was not exactly an easy man to miss.

"That is quite all right, Doctor," Mycroft said. "I suspect you and I are here for the same purpose."

"Yes," Dr. Watson said heavily. "I intended to come and see you, to offer my sincere condolences. I am so sorry, Mr. Holmes."

"Doctor," Mycroft said. "It is I who should offer you sympathy. I do not think I grieve for him even half as much as you do." _Or at all, since he is not dead!_ he longed to shout. Mycroft Holmes may not have understood the finer emotions, but one thing he was sure of was that what his brother was doing to his only friend was cruel, beyond what even he would have believed Sherlock capable of. Mycroft smiled sardonically. "My brother and I have never had a deep connection. We are too similar. But you, Doctor, lost a brother that day as well."

Dr. Watson looked surprised. "I – I confess I did think of him that way. I would not presume to think the feeling was reciprocated-"

Mycroft frowned. Did his brother have no care for his former lodger? Did he expect unwavering loyalty with nothing in return? _Oh, Sherlock, how is it I have greater knowledge of the heart and the emotions than you do?_ Mycroft thought. Out loud, he said, "Let me assure you, Doctor, it was."

Dr. Watson's eyes widened, and Mycroft smiled. "It is a curious thing, is it not, that for some men, sharing one's thoughts and feelings is as natural as breathing? Such men do much for their friends as a matter of course, while for others, the simple act of being near someone else requires great effort, only to be expended for those who are truly e _ssential_." He raised an eyebrow. "I was not the one my brother lived with all these years, Doctor. I am certain he could have done so with no one else."

Dr. Watson looked slightly taken aback, and then flushed red. "I – thank you, Mr. Holmes."

"Now, I must return to Whitehall," Mycroft said, wanting to return to his ordinary routine. "Do take care of yourself, Doctor." he added. One of Sherlock's many instructions had been to watch out for Dr. Watson, something Mycroft would have done in any case.

But he would be sure to let Sherlock know, whether by letter or telegram or by waiting until he saw his infernally overdramatic brother in person, that his "plan" had all but destroyed Dr. Watson's happiness. Mycroft ripped the armband from his jacket as he left the shop, no longer caring who noticed his lack of mourning. Let those who truly felt grief and sadness mourn; he had no right to put on so hypocritical a show. To do otherwise would be to make a mockery of the very real suffering Sherlock (and by extension, Mycroft) was putting his friends through. He wanted no part of it.

Yet, when Mycroft returned to his desk, he stared at the photograph of his brother that was the front page of the _Times_ and thought, _Hurry home, Sherlock. End this ruse, before it is too late and you have lost everything you hold dear._


	2. Chapter 2

From Garonne - An old acquaintance

* * *

It was hardly unusual for my friend Sherlock Holmes to disappear at odd hours, even on the weekends, so that when I awoke one Saturday morning in January 1888 to find myself alone in our rooms, I was hardly surprised. Nor was I surprised to find no note detailing where he had gone or when to expect his return. I had grown used to such things in the six years I had shared rooms with him and simply settled down to a late breakfast and the _Times_ without much thought on the matter.

No sooner had I sat down than I heard a knock on the door, and Mrs. Hudson answering it. I listened, wondering if perhaps it had to do with the case Holmes was working on at the moment, or perhaps a new client. I spied my notebook on my writing desk and thought that perhaps I might endeavor to take down the particulars of a new case, if indeed there was one, and surprise Holmes.

Mrs. Hudson opened our sitting room door and showed a tall, well-built man in. He appeared to be no older than either Holmes or myself, and his countenance was cheery, his complexion browned by the sun. He looked around the room with interest as our landlady showed him in.

"Doctor, this gentleman says he knows Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson informed me.

"Does he?" I said. That was not unusual; Holmes, for a man who claimed as a matter of pride that he had no friends other than myself, had an extraordinary number of acquaintances, many of which from such disparate areas of London as to be comical. I eyed our visitor suspiciously; Holmes had begun to gain himself a reputation and I did not consider it unlikely that someone he had made an enemy of would come to his address and seek revenge. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I finished. "May I inquire as to your name, sir?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," the newcomer said. "Forgive me, I am Mr. Victor Trevor."

My interest was piqued at the name; that of Holmes's college friend whose family centered in the first case my friend had ever been involved in. "I am very pleased to meet you!" I cried. "My name is Doctor John Watson."

"Yes, I thought you must be. You are certainly not my old friend Holmes," Trevor said with a hearty laugh. I found I rather liked his outgoing, friendly manners and was not at all offended when he suddenly apologized. "Please forgive me; things are much less formal in Tarai. I find I must accustom myself to British manners again!"

"That is quite all right," I said. "I spent some time in India myself. I know what it is like there."

"Of course, you did say that!" Trevor said, and he took from his pocket a well-thumbed issue of _Beeton's Christmas Annual._ I am afraid my cheeks grew rather red with pleasure when he smiled widely and said, "I have been in Britain only a few weeks, and I was reacquainting myself with all that has happened. It's dreadful slow to get news in Tarai, and I was merely happy to find a magazine in the correct month! I've always had an interest in crime, since the earliest days when my father was on the bench, and I thought myself lucky to find a new detective story. Imagine my surprise when the detective in question was none other than my college friend Sherlock Holmes!"

"Holmes has made quite a career for himself," I said, holding back the natural questions any author would have of his audience, such as whether the story was exciting enough or the characters realistic.

"My father said he would," Trevor said. He let out a little laugh. "I daresay my father and I were the first clients he ever had. He helped me determine the cause of my father's death, you know."

"He has told me something of it," I allowed, and Trevor smiled.

"Tell me, is the story of your meeting true? Was he really known for beating a corpse with a riding crop?" he asked.

"Indeed he was," I said. "He made himself something of a nuisance to those at St. Bart's."

Trevor smiled. "I can well imagine. He was an unusual fellow at college as well. Did he tell you how the only reason we became friends was because my dog bit him on the ankle?"

"He did," I said, laughing. Holmes did indeed require intervention if he was to meet anyone outside of informants; his habits were reclusive to the point of absurdity if left unchecked.

"I was rather sorry to lose track of him," Trevor said. "I confess I often wondered how he had got on in life, odd as he was, now to find that he has a thriving business and a biographer for a lodger! How things change."

I felt my cheeks warm. I had not thought myself a biographer, only an author of a little story that seemed to catch the popular fancy. I rather liked the idea; it gave the impression that I would write more stories about Holmes, something I sincerely hoped to do. "Did you enjoy _A Study in Scarlet_?" I finally asked shyly.

"Enjoy it?" Trevor said, almost taken aback. "Doctor Watson, I read it all in one night! I could not put it down. You have captured him utterly, and written an exciting story besides. I do hope you will write more."

Now I was certain my cheeks were as crimson as the "scarlet thread of murder" Holmes talked about in that case. Any author would like to hear his work so praised, and that such a compliment was given by someone who also knew Holmes meant much to me. "Thank you, Mr. Trevor. Thank you indeed!" I cried, then asked in sudden inspiration, "Tell me, did you ever go to Bombay?"

"Not for many years," Trevor answered. "I spend most of my time in the north, where we have none of the popular image of India. It is all dreadful cold and windy in the mountains. We are very near Nepal, after all."

"I was also far north," I said. "Although Afghanistan was quite different, as it is not nearly so mountainous."

"You saw less snow than I do, I suspect," Trevor answered. "But you did not get the snow leopards either."

"No, we did not!" I said. "Have you ever seen one? They are quite elusive."

"Once," Trevor answered. "Lovely creature. It is a shame more people cannot make it up to our part of India, it can be very beautiful."

"I'm sure," I said. "I would have liked to see it. Although the tiger I scared away from our camp one night was enough for me when it comes to large creatures!"

Trevor laughed and I offered him some tea while we waited for Holmes to return. I hoped we did not have long to wait, as Trevor would be quite disappointed not to see his old friend while he was in London. Fortunately, our similar experiences in India and several amusing stories about Holmes served to make the time go faster.

Fortunately, Holmes reappeared after only an hour and did not react at all to the presence of a guest until he realized who the guest was. "Upon my word, Victor Trevor!" Holmes said, shaking his old friend by the hand. "It is good to see you again. I was only telling Watson the story of your father and the _Gloria Scott_ a few weeks ago."

"It is good to see you as well, Holmes. I was just telling Watson how I enjoyed his little tale of you," Trevor said warmly. Holmes, who did not at all like the way I had written up the case, smiled tightly but said nothing.

"Actually, Doctor, if you intend to write further stories, I hope you will use my father's story. I think people would enjoy it, and it can hardly have any bearing on anyone's life anymore. I am the only one left with any connection to it, and I am well settled in India," Trevor said, rather shyly. "I would very much like to read about it."

"You intend to write _more_?" Holmes cried disbelievingly.

"Surely even you can see, Holmes, how your line of work lends itself to a serialized selection of cases?" I said.

"What a good idea!" Trevor cried. "You do not agree, Holmes?"

"Holmes does not think I did him justice in my story," I said. "He believes I ought to stick to the pure facts and leave the romanticism out."

"But the romanticism is already there, it is a factor of interest. You cannot take it out!" Trevor said.

Holmes appeared as if he wished to argue, but perhaps realized that even he would find it difficult to go against both of us and simply sat down by the fire, and soon the three of us were involved in a friendly chat of our memories of India, which I believe Holmes found rather fascinating even if he would not let on.

"What a very pleasant fellow," I said as I showed Trevor the door several hours later, with promises to write exchanged among all of us.

"Yes, he is that. I did tell you he and I were so different as to be complete opposites," Holmes said.

I chuckled. "It certainly does seem unlikely that you would meet and befriend such a man without an angry dog to facilitate it."

"It appears, Watson, as if I am unlikely to befriend anyone without someone acting as a mediator. Without Stamford, after all, you and I would never have met," Holmes said. He opened a newspaper lazily. "I do hope you do not take it upon yourself to take on the role of mediator as well as that of biographer, assistant, doctor and fellow-lodger. I am quite happy with my social life as it is."

"Believe me, Holmes, I would never insist on you associating with anyone you did not wish to," I said, knowing how intractable he could be. Then I amended my statement. "Except at my wedding, Holmes, I expect it would seem odd if my best man conversed with no one save the bride and groom."

Holmes threw his head back and laughed. "Rest assured, Watson, I shall be the very soul of charm and manners at your wedding."


	3. Chapter 3

From Garonne - A long day spent travelling

* * *

After several days spent in the French countryside, my dear Mary and I had finally reached the destination of our honeymoon: Paris. I was nearly overwhelmed at my first sight of the famed City of Lights, for it did indeed shine brighter than any city I had seen thus far in my travels. Next to me in the carriage, Mary appeared as delighted as I had ever seen her, and the journey to our lodgings seemed to take no time at all as we gazed out the windows at the sights. I made sure to tip our driver handsomely, though I believe he knew we were two happy young people on our honeymoon from the look he gave us.

"Well," I said as we unloaded our belongings into the charming hotel we had found to stay in. "It certainly has none of the fog we are so used to London!"

Mary laughed, a charming sound I thought I would never tire of. "It's so bright, isn't it, John? I cannot wait to explore the sights tomorrow. I have always longed to see it!"

"I cannot either," I said. I had a list of thing we wanted to visit, which despite my best intentions had grown to include most of the city. I sighed contentedly, eager to continue our most enjoyable honeymoon.

Mary woke early the next morning and was ready with a quickness that mimicked military time. I hurriedly followed her out the door and looked around for some sign of where the city center might be.

"John? Do you know how to get there?" Mary asked. I hurriedly pulled out a map, searching for our first destination, Notre Dame Cathedral.

"Of course," I said. "We will merely engage a cab and tell them Notre Dame." I smiled. Surely my schoolboy French could handle that.

Unfortunately, there appeared to be no cabs in sight and after several moments fruitless searching, Mary and I began the journey on foot. "Perhaps there will be a cab on a busier street," I said, still enthusiastic. We were on a side street, after all, and soon found ourselves on a main road, where were nearly accosted by several flower-sellers. " _Non, s'il vous plait_ ," I said, stretching my French to its limits.

I spied a cab with some relief and hailed it, climbing inside after Mary. The driver turned around and said something very quick in French which left me completely dumbfounded. The best I could manage was a confused expression while Mary answered in an equally confusing stream of French, of which I could only recognize the words "Notre Dame." I stared at her, somewhat impressed. Mary smiled at my confusion. "Boarding school, John."

"Ah, of course," I said, sitting back under the impression that this would get us to our destination.

After about an hour, I was beginning to doubt that. We had, to my perception, not moved past the street we had started on, and I nearly stuck my head out the window to determine why not. There were so many carriages ahead of us that it appeared it would take the entire day merely to leave this street.

Our driver said something else, and I turned to Mary to ask her what it meant when the cab lurched violently to one side and down an alley that seemed barely wider than the cab. Our driver was evidently not worried, because we hurtled down it at a breakneck speed. "What did he say?" I asked Mary, hanging on to the seat.

" 'Hold on,'" she answered. After that, we soon were crossing a bridge and could see the towers of Notre Dame ahead of us. "Oh, John, look! There it is!"

The cab stopped abruptly and we got out. "The driver says he cannot get us any closer," Mary said as I paid.

"Yes, I can see that," I said, looking out at the sea of people surrounding the church. We began the walk to the church, only to find that everyone was apparently angry, standing outside the closed doors of the church.

"What is going on?" I asked, and Mary took my hand and pulled me through the crowd until we were as close as we could be to the entrance. The magnificent doors were closed, and there were guards standing outside.

"The signs say the cathedral is closed," Mary said, frowning in disappointment. "For repair. What a shame, John, it may not be open the entire time we're here."

"Yes," I agreed sadly. "But let's get out of here and find somewhere else to go. I'm sure we can still find many places to see."

Mary smiled. "Yes, of course. You're right. Look, the church of Saint-Chappelle is right here on this island!"

"Then let's go!" I said, and we set off, our good spirits returned. We had to fight our way through many passersby, all of whom seemed to be heading in the opposite direction and in spite of its close proximity to Notre Dame, it took us the better part of an hour to find Saint-Chappelle, where we joined a long line of people waiting to enter the church. I opened our map while we waited to determine where we should go next.

A man was walking down the line, calling out in French and I sighed in exasperation. It was so frustrating to understand nothing of what was said around me, although I was grateful that Mary's boarding school education meant that she was equipped to translate. She listened and looked up at me with another disappointed frown. "What is it?" I asked.

"Only that they have too many people waiting to go in, so we will likely not make it in today," she answered.

"Oh," I said, my disappointment matching hers.

"It is no matter," she answered. "We can spend the day in the Louvre instead."

We then attempted to hail another cab to no avail, and found ourselves walking across the bridges over the Seine. I held our map out in front of us as we navigated the twisting streets, and was confident in our ability to find what we were looking for.

After several hours, I sighed and admitted defeat. "It seems as if we have been walking in circles all day!" I cried. "I'm so sorry, Mary." My feet were aching with tiredness and I knew hers must have been as well. I felt dreadful about it all. I looked around the unfamiliar street near despair. We were nowhere near the Louvre, nor were we anywhere near our hotel. I did not know _where_ we were.

"John, it's all right. We can start again tomorrow," Mary said tiredly, but trying for her usual unflagging spirit. "We have three days to get to know the city, after all."

"Yes, but it's our honeymoon!" I said peevishly. Then I sighed. "You are right, after all, my dear. Come, let's find our way before it gets dark."

I made sure to follow the map closely and I soon began to recognize the sights from earlier in the day. "I believe we have made it," Mary said, brightening slightly.

"Yes," I said. "We're very close." I was not so cheery; I wanted nothing more than get back to our hotel room and light our fire.

"Look, John!" Mary suddenly said, pointing in the opposite direction from our hotel room. "It is Mr. Eiffel's tower!"

I followed her gaze to a half-finished contraption of steel, with scaffolding all around. It looked very mechanical and modern to me, not at all in step with the quaint architecture and ancient buildings around it. "Hmph," I said. "I do not like it."

"It's going to be very tall," Mary said. "The tallest thing in the city, I should think."

I tried to picture the city with this great tower in the center of it and frowned. "It's not very welcoming," I protested.

"They say they're going to let people climb it," Mary said. "What a view that will be!"

"Well, if we waited to go until then we might have had better luck. We've spent the whole day travelling, saw nothing and yet never left the city!" I imagined telling Holmes of our mishaps and for the first time, began to see some humor in it. He would no doubt find it highly amusing.

"Well, why shouldn't we?" Mary said logically. "We should be able to take another trip, shouldn't we?"

I finally smiled. Dear Mary, always so optimistic. "Of course, my dear. I'm sure we shall take many. But now, to our fireside. I've seen quite enough of Paris for today!"

* * *

A/N The Eiffel Tower was built for the Exhibition of 1889, but construction began in 1887, so it would have been under construction in 1888 for the Watsons' honeymoon. The official reconstruction of Notre Dame ended in 1880 so that's all made up on my part.


	4. Chapter 4

From W. Y. Traveller - Holmes and Watson go Christmas shopping to buy a present for Mrs. Hudson

* * *

 _December 1881_

"Holmes?" Watson asked tentatively from his seat by the fire. I made a noncommittal noise to show that I was listening, although in fact, I was paying little attention. My experiment had reached a crucial phase and any distraction on my part could result in its ruin. I carefully poured the exact right amount of the solution into my beaker and watched a small cloud rise above it.

"Aha!" I cried triumphantly. Watson looked at me with an expression of patient exasperation and I realized he had been in the middle of asking me a question, which I had not heard at all. "Do forgive me, Watson, what did you say?" I said, arranging my features in an apologetic expression. But, really, after almost a year he ought to know not to interrupt me while I was engaged in a chemical experiment.

"I asked you what you were intending to buy our landlady for Christmas?"

I merely stared back at him, not wanting to let on that I had not thought of such a thing at all. I was so occupied that I barely even noticed the season approaching, aside from the small tree that had appeared in a corner of the sitting room, no doubt Watson's doing. Was it customary for lodgers to give gifts to their landladies? I certainly never had before (although this might partly explain why my landlady at Montague Street was so deucedly not fond of me). "Is that expected?" I finally asked.

Watson's mustache twisted in the way which let me know he was faintly amused by yet another gap in my knowledge. I brushed it aside – what use is it to _me_ to keep track of these confounding Christmas traditions?

Yet, Mrs. Hudson was an exemplar landlady, patient with the endless streams of occasionally unsavory visitors and even willing to endure my indoor gunfire and noxious smells from my chemical experiments. I doubted I should find another such landlady in all of London, not to mention that I would be leaving Watson with the entire rent should I be forced to leave. Perhaps it was in my best interest to maintain a good relationship with our estimable landlady.

"I thought it might be a nice gesture," Watson said. "We were very lucky to find these rooms, Holmes, not to mention a landlady so patient with our particular requirements." It was as if he had read my thoughts; honestly, Watson is not so oblivious as he may sometimes appear. He is developing an uncanny way of reading my moods and of knowing how to handle them. I find it is something I rather enjoy; it is so deucedly tiresome to have to continually explain oneself.

"In that case, Watson, perhaps we may as well present Mrs. Hudson with something in honor of the season," I said. "If we were to go halves on it, we should find something quite nice."

Watson's face lit up joyfully. "I was hoping you would say that! I am afraid, well, with my funds…" He turned a slight shade of red, not wanting to let on that he was still having financial difficulty, although why he thought I should mind I have no idea. The poor man has only spent the last year recovering from his dreadful ordeal in Afghanistan, and I find nothing shameful in needing to be a trifle thrifty while trying to establish oneself. I am, after all, in the same situation.

"Why, of course. We go halves on all else, do we not?" I said, referring to our rent. He looked at me fondly, although I could not say why. "Come, Watson, it is a delightful day for a walk and perhaps we will find something suitable while we are out," I said suddenly, tired of my chemical experiments.

Watson glanced at the window at the cloudy, grey sky, which no doubt did not fit his definition of a delightful day for a walk, but took his coat and his stick and followed me.

"Now, what does one buy for a widowed landlady?" I asked, trying and failing to come up with any idea.

"Surely she must have given you some clue? Can you not read her the way you read everyone else?"

"Of course I can!" I said peevishly, before catching a glimpse of the smile on Watson's face and realizing he was teasing me. "Women are your department, Watson," I finally said. "Do you not have experience on three continents?" I found this fact extraordinary amusing, largely because I had yet to see Watson speak to a woman without turning that interesting shade of red and stumbling over his words.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Holmes, they are not a different _species_!" Watson said. "Come, perhaps the bookshop will have something she will like." I eyed him dubiously, knowing what he could be like in a bookshop, but followed him inside.

"Do you know what Mrs. Hudson likes to read?" I asked.

Watson shrugged helplessly, and I could see him glance longingly at the shelves of newly released novels. I slipped my arm through his and steered him in the opposite direction. We must remain on task. "Perhaps a cookbook?" I suggested.

Watson shook his head. "That might be taken as a criticism of what she has cooked for us so far," he said.

It might? I surely had not meant it as such (although I _was_ dreadfully tired of cabbage soup). But this was Watson's area of expertise, and I was more than willing to concede in the face of it. "All right," I said. "Do you have any ideas?"

"There are several magazines which might be of interest," Watson said, looking over a display of several ladies magazines. "Perhaps one of these?"

I looked them over quickly. "Mrs. Hudson has subscriptions to most of these already," I said carelessly.

"How-?" Watson began, when he then rolled his eyes. "Of course. You go through the post."

"Not every day," I said defensively. I had to see if anything of _interest_ arrived, did I not? One could learn a great deal about a person from their post. Watson, for instance, took every medical journal he could, but often left them unopened for days in favor of magazines which printed poetry and serialized literature. "I doubt we will find anything here," I said, leading Watson out. "Perhaps we should look elsewhere?"

Watson agreed, although after another hour's fruitless searching, we were both rather annoyed and still without a gift. "Do you think Mrs. Hudson requires a new mixing pot?" I asked.

"I doubt it, as she already has three," Watson said. "I cannot believe there is nothing in the entire city we can give as a Christmas gift!"

I grunted in assent, although I was currently occupied in looking at a display of poinsettias. A lovely plant, made lovelier, at least to me, by the fact that its leaves and flowers were poisonous. These were in fine shape, large and blooming, and should last until spring. Watson followed my gaze and smiled. "Holmes, you have solved it!"

"What have I solved?" I asked.

"We can buy Mrs. Hudson some of these poinsettias! It is perfectly in season, it will brighten her rooms considerably and it will make up for our killing her last houseplant when she went to visit her sister!" Watson said excitedly.

I winced, remembering our landlady's anger upon her return to find her prized houseplant dead in the hallway. "That was entirely my doing, Watson, not yours," I said. She had, after all, left me in charge of it.

"Well, I certainly didn't inform you that I thought it needed more care," Watson said reasonably. "Here, we should be able to buy two."

I nodded assent, glad to have the difficult task of choosing a gift over with, and reflecting that Christmas was the only time it was not only appropriate, but _expected,_ to give poisonous plants as a gift. I was dreadfully surprised no criminal had yet determined this. But, for the moment, Watson and I merely returned home laden with two exceptionally large poinsettias, which Mrs. Hudson eyed suspiciously for several moments before looking delighted that we had thought to buy her a gift at all. I climbed the stairs, eminently satisfied with the day's work when I suddenly realized I would have to buy Watson a gift as well, since he would undoubtedly be giving me one.

I frowned. I would have to think about this extensively, as it would likely be even more difficult than today's excursion into gift-buying. I would have to use all my powers to determine what he would appreciate most, and I sat down with my pipe to mull it over. It proved to be (in the absence of any criminal undertakings) the most perplexing problem I would face this month.


	5. Chapter 5

From W. Y. Traveller - A Christmas carol

* * *

Detective Inspector Lestrade slowly made his way through the halls of Scotland Yard, a glare evident on his features. He did not like the Christmas season much, prompting many of the younger officers to unofficially christen him "Scrooge" and quote Dickens' most famous work at him as he passed by. But his dislike came only from the increase in petty crime that accompanied the season, not from any antipathy to Christmas itself. It seemed as if people buying gifts for their loved ones invited every criminal in the city to attempt to steal, pickpocket and otherwise make themselves nuisances on the Metropolitan Police force. Although he had to admit, he also was not fond of Christmas pudding. Or of carolers in the street. He sighed. He couldn't wait for the season to be over.

He had reached his desk and was about to begin filing away his latest solved case; that of a toy-robbing spree in the East End, when he noticed an annoying whistling sound. It was so out of tune it took him some time to realize that it was supposed to be a melody at all, but it gradually began making sense as a particularly terrible rendition of "The First Noel." Lestrade turned around, trying to determine the source of this annoying noise when his gaze settled on Gregson, sitting at his desk and whistling cheerfully, oblivious to how disruptive the noise was. Lestrade sighed. It was bad enough his rival made him look incompetent in front of the Commissioner; _must_ he insist on forcing everyone to take part in holiday cheer?

"Gregson, is that you making that infernal noise?" Lestrade asked irritably.

Thankfully, that made the whistling stop, as Gregson looked up with a most annoying smile. "Why, yes it was. I love Christmas, don't you?"

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, well aware that he was stepping into a trap. If he confirmed that he did, indeed, dislike the Christmas season, Gregson would no doubt take it as a chance to annoy Lestrade for the rest of the month. _Not that it would be all that different from every month if he does_ , Lestrade thought. He and Gregson simply did not work well together, in any capacity.

"Yes, well, keep it down, would you? Some of us have work to do," Lestrade said pointedly, eyeing the pile of unsolved cases on his desk.

"Do you? Mine is all finished," Gregson said.

"Well, good for you," Lestraade said sarcastically under his breath.

The next day, Lestrade was feeling quite good about the way his cases were progressing. He had only had to ask Holmes about one; the rest were likely to be solved in the next day or two. He sat back, enjoying the slight reprieve from work when Gregson strolled in, whistling again. This time, it sounded like "O Christmas Tree." Lestrade was surprised Gregson had not yet put a Christmas tree on his desk. No doubt he would do so soon, and place it in exactly the right spot so Lestrade would have to see it every time he looked up. "Will you stop that?" Lestrade asked.

Gregson turned to Lestrade with such a sad expression it simply _had_ to be faked, no one could so convincingly mimic a puppy. "I'm setting up our Christmas tree today, Lestrade. I thought it would put me in the mood."

"I, well, oh, fine, go ahead," Lestrade said irritably, before he made himself seem an utter monster, images of Gregson's two young daughters happily decorating a tree springing up in his mind. Perhaps he should just be happy with being Scrooge.

Gregson smiled and then abruptly switched to "I Saw Three Ships." Which, Lestrade thought, completely aside from being a Christmas carol, was entirely too jovial a song for this early in the morning.

For the entirety of the next week, Gregson whistled or hummed a wide variety of Christmas carols, just loudly enough that everyone except Lestrade seemed to find it an endearing habit. Today it seemed to be "It Came Upon the Midnight Clear."

"Do you stay up the night before picking each song?" Lestrade finally asked in annoyance, scribbling his name on the last of his request forms.

"No, I find it's whichever one comes to me in the morning," Gregson answered seriously, and Lestrade rolled his eyes. How many more weeks was it until Christmas?

Lestrade's mood had already been ruined when he saw the tall, lean figure of Scotland Yard's favorite consulting detective crossing the room toward him, with Dr. Watson behind him. Lestrade groaned under his breath. _Why_ was he the one who Holmes seemed to have developed something akin to a normal working relationship with?

 _Because the rest refuse to work with him_ , Lestrade reminded himself, although Gregson had been known to confer with Holmes on occasion. He would be sorely annoyed with Lestrade if he knew his rival knew that, which was the first thought that put a smile on Lestrade's face that morning.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said. "Come to tell us you've solved my case, have you?"

"The attempted ice-skating murders you asked me about?" Holmes said. "I have several lines of inquiry at the moment. It looks very promising, and I should have it solved in a matter of hours. I am actually here to tell you that you're looking into the wrong man for the Christmas pudding case."

"What?" Lestrade said, looking through his files. "How did you even know I was working on that? Have you been reading my files?"

"Not at all, Lestrade. It is, after all, hardly necessary. I was consulted by the lady in question, and I have determined that her brother had nothing whatsoever to do with her lost Christmas pudding." He looked satisfied, and Lestrade resisted the urge to sigh irritably. He would have to then admit that he was going after the entirely wrong line of questioning to his superiors. Confound the man and his almost supernatural powers. If he wanted to assist the police in solving crimes, why the devil did he not simply join the police force?

He was about to say something in return when Gregson's irritating whistling began again; this time "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen," and he simply rolled his eyes. However, he was surprised completely when Holmes, without even a second's thought, said, "Do stop that, Gregson, you are most annoyingly off key."

Gregson stopped, exceptionally surprised, and Lestrade stared at Holmes in shock. Did Holmes dislike the season as much as Lestrade himself did? That would be the first time he had agreed with their resident consulting detective on anything.

"I didn't know you were musical, Holmes," Lestrade finally said. What _did_ he know about the fellow? As far as he knew, Sherlock Holmes had sprung fully formed into the world, ready to push aside the official police with his theories. It seemed strange to think that he might have other things he enjoyed, things he did in his free time.

Dr. Watson smiled, with a touch of exasperation. "You're quite gifted on your violin, Holmes. You ought to play for the force sometime."

Lestrade had to laugh at the horrified look on Holmes's face. "Don't worry, Holmes, we see quite enough of you as it is," he said.

"Thank you," Holmes said. "I'm glad _someone_ has not lost their sense because it is December once again."

 _And they call me Scrooge_ , Lestrade thought, as Watson gave his friend a disappointed look, saying, "Oh, come now, Holmes. It's not so bad as all that. We'll enjoy the season, just watch. And if you don't like the way Gregson whistles, you can play the carols yourself!"

 _Where in the world did he find this fellow?_ Lestrade thought in wonder, as Holmes did look mollified and began discoursing on the varying styles of Christmas carols throughout the centuries. The force, even Gregson, rolled their eyes as he left, and Lestrade shook his head.

But, he thought several hours later, Holmes's visits certainly had their benefits. Gregson was so perturbed over the amateur's opinion of his whistling that he had not made a sound the entire rest of the day, and Lestrade smiled to himself. Yes, there certainly were benefits to having the world's only consulting detective on one's side.


	6. Chapter 6

From Garonne - A snowy field

A/N I did some lighthearted ones the last few days, but you know I can never stay away from the angst for long. A Watson during WWI fic.

* * *

I was woken abruptly by the sound of bullets and rockets firing, and was out of bed in a matter of seconds – if my cot in a dank hole cut in the side of a trench can be called a bed. It was where I had been for the last year, since I had been sent to the front to replace another field doctor killed in action. Now I grabbed my ever-ready medkit and the gas mask I kept next to my pillow and raced as quickly as I could to find Fletcher, commander of the unit.

"What is it?" I asked when I saw him strapping his rifle to his back and about to climb up the trench.

"Surprise attack," he grunted. "None of us thought they'd come for us now; dead of winter and all. Guess we were wrong." His tone was matter-of-fact and it belied his youth; he had taken command at barely twenty-five years of age, in the absence of anyone else.

"Let me come. I can help the men," I said forcefully.

Fletcher chuckled mirthlessly. "Not a chance, Doctor. That's how we lost the last one, and he, God rest his soul, wasn't half the doctor you are. You _stay_ here; we'll bring back as many as we can for you to save."

I glared at him, although in this atmosphere of death and destruction a simple glare no longer had the force it used to and he simply tied on his own gas mask and hoisted himself up and out of the trench. I sighed and sat down, feeling horribly guilty at being stuck here while my unit put itself in such danger. I reflected that, a year ago when I had been sent, no one had been particularly happy to see me. Fletcher had spent the night raging to his second-in-command that they had sent him a "bloody pensioner" for a doctor. Thinking back on that night, he was certainly correct. I was no use to the men out in no man's land, where my worsening limp made it difficult going to navigate the field filled with the detritus of battle.

Although, after a time, when I saved several men who would have otherwise died, and spent many a night surrounded by my young comrades, telling stories of Australia, and Afghanistan and especially, of Sherlock Holmes, they had rather taken to me. More than one of the young men had told me I reminded them of their grandfathers, and they had begun to look after me, in their way. I was touched, and my resolve strengthened. I would not leave them out there alone, and I pulled my gas mask on and climbed with difficulty out of the trench.

The noise of battle, the scream of rockets and the cries of the men left for dead were much louder here and I shook my head to clear the confusion. I could see hardly anything through the smoke and the light layer of snow on the field made it harder to tell where it was safe to step. I trod carefully, making note of how far I ventured from the trench, and which way I could use to return. I knelt down next to a young man who had been here since he turned seventeen, blood pouring out of his throat and then sighed. There was nothing I could do for him, and I moved on, pushing the image of the blood mixing with the muddy snow from my mind.

 _Find someone you_ can _help,_ I told myself. That was the first rule in war; waste no time with what cannot be helped. I found young Alex Smith, in civilian life a bricklayer from York, in war an artillery sergeant huddled behind half an abandoned tank.

"Let me look at your head," I ordered him, as I saw him going into shock from the blood lost.

"Di'n't they tell you to stay behind?" he asked lazily.

I forced a smile. "They did indeed. But as you know, I've never been very good at listening." I tied a bandage around his head and stood up with an effort. "Stay there," I warned him. "You're no use to anyone if you can't see straight, just sit there until the fighting dies down."

"Whate'er you say, Doc," he said carelessly, slumping down into unconsciousness. I checked his pulse – strong, he would live if someone could get him back to our lines – and moved on.

I picked my way slowly toward the center of the snowy field, hearing bullets whiz past me and occasionally ducking at the sound of rocket fire. On one of these occasions, I landed heavily next to a young man lying in the dirty snow, his face twisted with pain and I crawled over to him to examine his injuries. I clinically evaluated; he wasn't wearing a gas mask, a sure sign of a new recruit, and a bullet had ripped through his abdomen, blood pouring out and making it difficult to determine the actual extent of the injury, but I saw nothing worse than blood, and decided, rashly perhaps, to attempt to save him. I pulled out some more bandages and began wrapping his wound.

"Who's that?" the young man asked groggily.

"I'm Dr. Watson, the doctor for the unit," I said. This young man, then, had come in with the latest bunch of soldiers only a few days before, not enough time to get to know the veterans here. As cruel at it sounded, there usually was not enough time for us to get to know the new arrivals either. The young man tried to sit up and groaned, and I pushed him back. "Lie still," I said.

"I knew a Doctor Watson, once," he said softly, and I stopped, taking a closer look. It had been many years, and I was looking through a gas mask, but the lad's features slowly coalesced into ones I recognized.

"My word. Young Tommy Prescott!" I said in shock. After Wiggins had grown up, Tommy Prescott had gradually taken over the leadership of the Irregulars, which he had started in as a tiny boy of maybe five years old. I had not seen him in over a decade.

A smile crossed Prescott's pained features. "So it is you, Doctor."

"What are you doing here?" I asked him.

"Could ask you the same thing, couldn't I, Doctor?" he answered.

"Yes, I suppose so," I said. "Just like old times, with Mr. Holmes, isn't it?"

He nodded painfully as I finished wrapping the wound, and I frowned. Infection could still easily set in, and I looked around for any sign that the fighting was stopping, to no avail.

"It's all right, Tommy, you're going to be fine," I said quietly. "Tell me, when did you join up?" I asked, to keep him talking.

"Last – last month," he answered. "Wanted to join the police, like Wiggins, but I'm needed here, aren't I?'

I sighed. "I don't know if any of us are needed here." I could see no purpose to this carnage anymore, but I patted his shoulder anyway. "You did the right thing, lad."

"WATSON! What are you doing?!" Fletcher yelled at me from several feet away, taking aim and shooting at the German lines through the smoke.

"Saving your men!" I called back, ducking as a rocket exploded close by.

Fletcher ran over. "There's nothing you can do here, get back to the lines!"

"I'm not leaving!" I declared angrily. "He's one of Holmes's! I'm not leaving him here!"

Fletcher glared at me, but after so many years spent at the front he could tell when a man was intractable and he gave up. "You have your gun?"

I nodded; they had given me a gun when I signed up, but I had left that next to my cot. However, from long habit, my old service revolver was always in my pocket, and I pulled it out, making sure it was loaded.

"Good," Fletcher said. "Do nothing unless someone comes at you, understand?" I nodded again and he ran off. I sat down next to Prescott in the midst of the snowy, bloody field, my pistol ready.

"We're going to make it back," I said forcefully. "I will not let there be any other outcome."

* * *

Some of you might remember Tommy Prescott from one of my prompt answers last year: I was going to use Wiggins but I thought he might be slightly too old for it to work.


	7. Chapter 7

From Garonne - An old oak chest

Might be slightly OOC

* * *

The Christmas festivities, Mycroft mused, while so joyful to all the other children he knew (which was hardly very many to begin with), seemed to stir in him all the opposite emotions. He could not wait until the noise and disruption to his routine inherent in the season were over. They had invited most of his father's very large family for the holiday, who had taken over the house in a matter of days. Mycroft could find no peaceful spot without his younger cousins wailing for attentions, those closer to his age attempting to interest him in their own tedious pastimes, his aunts and uncles talking too loudly, his grandparents wondering in whispers why he and his brother were so odd. He didn't like any of it.

Perhaps, if it had been his mother's family, it would have been different. That was where the streak of genius had come from, the artistic side that gave Mycroft and Sherlock their intellect and unusual way of seeing the world. But their mother's family was across the Channel, in France, and they may as well have been halfway around the world.

At fifteen, Mycroft could at least safely analyze the reasons for his reactions, knowing that everything would be back to normal in January, but at the moment, he was searching for his brother. Sherlock was only just outgrowing the early stage of childhood, where his differences could still be overlooked during games and written off as youthful eccentricities. Mycroft's gift for observation told him that Sherlock was beginning to find the festivities as onerous as he himself did, and he resolved to find the boy. He climbed the stairs to the little-used third story, searching through all the rooms to no avail. He sighed. It was just like Sherlock to go up into the attic.

Mycroft opened the door to their cavernous attic and climbed up. Compared to the rest of the house, it was blissfully silent, dark and full of interesting items. Mycroft could easily understand why Sherlock had come up here.

"Sherlock?" he called quietly.

"Go away," a small voice said, and Mycroft smiled, following the voice to its source; a small, black-haired boy sitting crouched under an ancient table, looking sullen. Sherlock glared up at his brother. "I said, go away, Mycroft."

"I'm not allowed to get away from the visitors either?" Mycroft asked innocently, settling himself as best he could next to his brother.

"You don't like them either?" Sherlock asked, such relief on his face that Mycroft's heart went out to him. "I didn't know that."

"I've simply become better at hiding from them," Mycroft said. He had hardly left his room these past few weeks, only when it was absolutely required of him.

Sherlock got a sulky expression on again. "They think I'm weird."

"Oh?" Mycroft said. "How?"

"I heard Gran telling Aunt Lydia that I'm too clever for my age," Sherlock answered. "Isn't it a good thing to be clever?"

"It is indeed," Mycroft said gravely.

"But Gran said I shouldn't show off reading Father's encyclopedia. She said Cousin Peter will be upset," Sherlock said. "Cousin Peter can't even read yet!"

"Cousin Timothy cannot even do calculus, and he is two years older than me," Mycroft said. He often had to resist the urge to show off in front of his university-bound cousin, who found the works of Shakespeare difficult going. A positively shameful thing at sixteen, Mycroft thought, not least because he had first read them himself at the age of seven. He found the extent to which he was constantly and unfavorable compared to his cousin tiresome.

"And Cousin Charlotte cannot even name the countries in the Empire!" Sherlock cried. "I could do that when I was four, but everyone told me off when I said so." Their cousin was three years older than Sherlock, and Mycroft was inclined to believe that any child of that age should know the holdings of Her Majesty's Empire.

"What's wrong with us, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked quietly.

A stab of anger shot through Mycroft at his little brother's words. This was why one ought to remove themselves as far as possible from society; then no one should ever think this about them. "Nothing is wrong with us, Sherlock," he said. "We have art in our blood."

"What?" Sherlock asked, his expression confused.

"Come with me," Mycroft said, and he led Sherlock to an old, oak chest lying in a forgotten corner of the attic. He had discovered it on one of his sojourns up here years before, and thought it was long past time Sherlock learned of his heritage. He opened the chest and motioned his brother closer.

The chest opened to reveal a large number of neatly stacked paintings, and Mycroft showed each in turn to his brother. "You see, Sherlock, these are the works of our ancestors on our mother's side. The Vernets are quite famous in France as a family of artists, going back to the eighteenth century."

"Oh!" Sherlock cried, looking at a well-done painting of a horse. "It looks so real," he said to Mycroft.

Mycroft smiled. "Carle Vernet was the first to paint such lifelike horses, as his father Claude Joseph Vernet was the first to paint such lifelike maritime scenes, and his son Horace was among the first to see the common sight of the city as a subject worthy of his brush. We have examples of all three of them here."

Sherlock reverently looked through the paintings, and looked up at Mycroft. "But we are not artists, Mycroft," he said. "You can't even draw."

Mycroft smiled. "No, but there is more to being an artist than the ability to draw, is there not? See here?" He chose two paintings for a demonstration. "Do you think Carle Vernet could have painted such a realistic looking horse without that turn for observation you and I share? And here, didn't Horace Vernet have to study the army and the battlefield to paint war as realistically as he did?"

"The way you study maths, and I study chemistry?" Sherlock asked quickly.

"Exactly so," Mycroft said. "Father's family is that of good English country squires, but our talents are certainly those of Mother's family. Art in the blood is liable to take strange forms, Sherlock. But that is why you feel so different from Father's family."

"Oh," Sherlock said, looking a little happier. "Have you ever met Mother's family?"

"Sadly, no," Mycroft said. "As much progress as has been made, there is still a great deal of difficulty in traveling to France."

"I would like to meet them," Sherlock said. "They wouldn't think we were strange, would they, Mycroft?"

"Probably not, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "Perhaps one day you shall." He pictured the long journey to France and shuddered. No, he would be perfectly happy remaining in whatever little corner of England he found for himself. But Sherlock was so much more active; perhaps the travel would be more to his tastes.

"It would be nice to meet more people like us, wouldn't it, Mycroft?" Sherlock said, getting up.

 _Sadly, Sherlock, there are no people like us_ , Mycroft thought, surprising himself with how sentimental he was getting. Perhaps the season was getting to him after all. But at the moment, he was decidedly grateful he had a brother.

Even he could not go through life entirely alone.

* * *

A/N I had no idea the Vernets were actually real, but Carle Vernet (1758-1836) was well known for being one of the first artists to paint realistic horses from life study. His father, Claude Joseph (1714-1789), lived in Rome and was known for maritime works, while Carle's son Horace (1789-1863) rejected the accepted painting style of the day, instead painting contemporary scenes from everyday life and became well-known for the truth and accuracy of his battlefield paintings. Doyle never made it clear _which_ Vernet was Holmes's great-uncle, so I just included all of them.


	8. Chapter 8

From silvermouse - Gold Bible

* * *

In my early days as a consulting detective, I found myself unoccupied and without work far too often. For all my efforts in attempting to establish myself in my profession, I was still struggling to find clients, other than Lestrade, who remained stubbornly unwilling to consult me unless truly at his wits end. This did not happen nearly as often I would have thought, and I was left with many hours with which to occupy myself.

Knowing the black moods I was prone to without something to occupy my mind, I decided to use my considerable free time wisely, by advancing my knowledge as much as I could. One never knew what obscure fact would come in useful in my profession; in one case I had read about, the official police were thoroughly stymied until a scholar managed to translate the criminal's communications with his henchman, which were all written in an obscure Italian dialect. In an effort to ensure that my ignorance of a subject would never cause me to fail on an investigation, I became a common sight at both St. Bart's and the British Museum. If nothing else, it allowed me to get away from the chaos and noise of my Montague Street rooms. It was also warm, something my rooms never were, even in the height of summer.

I sighed, entering the magnificent reading room of the British Museum, the librarians nodding at me as I passed. I, and my sometimes unusual requests for information, were well-known to all of them, but today I had no enthusiasm for the work. Perhaps it was because I had already spent the week here and not spoken to a single living being other than myself, and even I had begun to find it trying. I shook my head and turned back to the volume I was studying, a treatise on the types of fabrics created in various regions of textile production. I had told myself I required no companionship, and so I would remain solitary. My work was sufficient for me.

I went on with the text, taking in perhaps one word in five when I became aware of a commotion near the entrance. I looked up in annoyance, and I was not the only one to do so. I came here for the quiet atmosphere, and if I was going to be disturbed, I may as well have gone to the Diogenes, however much I disliked doing so. Mycroft became so annoyingly overprotective when he saw me now, fretting about my rooms and my clothes and my lack of a true career. In spite of the enforced silence of his club, he managed to get his ideas across well enough to make himself a complete nuisance.

"But where could it be? I am sure I have not brought it out for anyone in weeks!" one librarian by the name of Bernard Wilson, who I had come to know fairly well, exclaimed. Could they not be _quiet?_ Surely librarians must know the value of the word.

"Someone must have!" his companion said, holding a file.

My librarian friend sighed and looked around, appearing close to despair when he spotted me. "That fellow Holmes will be able to help us, I'm sure of it!" He led the way to me and said without preamble, "You must help us, Mr. Holmes! I believe you are the only one who can!"

Suddenly, my irritation with the disturbance had gone. How I had been waiting for someone to say those words to me! I leapt up, ignoring Wilson's companion's look of uncertainty. "Tell me what happened, and leave out no details, please."

"Excuse me," said his companion. "But who is this fellow, and how can he help us?"

"I am Sherlock Holmes," I said, "and I am a consulting detective. I take it you have a case I can assist you with?"

"Oh, yes," Wilson said, nervously wiping his glasses on a handkerchief. "Our holdings here at the library are extensive, Mr. Holmes, as you know, and many of the books are not available for public use. Among these are our illuminated manuscripts."

I listened, my interest piqued, but not allowing any hint of it to show on my face. I nodded to him to continue.

"Well, every so often we go into the storeroom to ensure that the manuscripts are safe and remain in good condition, which I did this morning, only to find that one of our most prized examples is missing!" Wilson's voice rose in panic, and his companion opened his file.

"I am the director of the medieval collection, Dr. Samuel Smith, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Wilson informed me immediately on discovering the loss. This is the manuscript that has disappeared." I took the pictures with interest. Even in the colorless photographs and copied drawings, the illuminations were particularly magnificent, the drawings intricate and skillfully drawn.

"We call it the 'Gold Bible'," Dr. Smith said. "You cannot see it in the photographs, but there is gold leaf used on almost every page, and the cover is gold as well. I know of no other example so spectacular, even the Book of Kells pales in comparison."

I nodded absently. The academic Dr. Smith might not realize, thinking as he was of the manuscript's historical and aesthetic value, but the sheer amount of gold used in its production meant it would fetch a substantial sum on the artistic black market.

"Can you help us, Mr. Holmes?" Dr. Smith asked urgently.

"Perhaps," I said. "Tell me, when was the last time you saw the manuscript prior to your check this morning?"

"Last week," Wilson told me. "We brought in a group of students from the university, to view the manuscripts. But we watched them constantly and never let the books out of our sight! Oh, Mr. Holmes, I have lost the most priceless treasure we possessed!" He sat on the chair next to me, his face in his hands.

"When does this manuscript date from?" I asked, although with my own knowledge of the medieval period, I could confidently place the manuscript to sometime before the eleventh century.

"We believe it dates from the late ninth century," Dr, Smith said. "The workmanship and style is clearly Early Medieval, but what makes this manuscript unusual is the large amount of gold used. Such amounts were unusual even in the High Medieval period, never mind the Early. It is why we call it the Gold Bible."

"Do you know anything else about the manuscript?" I asked.

"Only that we think it originally comes from Scotland, from the island monastery of Iona," Dr. Smith said. Then, losing patience, he burst out, "Confound it, do you know anything about this or are we wasting our time?"

"I do," I said, offering nothing else. "Do you have a list of the students who were admitted to the storeroom?"

"Yes, right here," Wilson said.

"Very good," I said, taking the list. "I will inform you when I have made progress." I sat back down, taking care to make sure my posture informed them I needed no further information and they could leave. To work on this most interesting case, I needed time to myself.

I spent the next week tracking down every student who had visited the collection; knowing that they were the most likely people to have committed such a crime. None had any knowledge of the theft. Indeed, none seemingly had any knowledge of anything that had happened after the 15th century. I knew I could get caught up in study on occasion, but these students made me seem positively well up on the times.

I was nearly at my wits end when I knocked on the door of one young man, who wore a suspicious expression. "What is it you want?" he asked sullenly in a heavy Scottish brogue.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I would like to know," I said, "where you have hidden the manuscript you took."

I had hoped to take him off guard as I had all the others, who had known nothing of it. This young man gasped, his eyes widening in fear and he sat heavily on the chair at his desk. "How did you know?" he finally whispered, and I smiled. I knew I had my man.

"Why did you take it?" I asked.

The young man took a breath and swallowed nervously before beginning his tale."My name is Andrew MacDougal. My family is an old one, connected to several Highland clans, although for the past few decades we have owned several factories in Glasgow. That's only to finance our main goal, which is independence for Scotland." MacDougal looked nervously at me. "My father, my mother, my uncles, my brother…they give their all for the cause, every penny we can spare goes to help our efforts."

"Violent?" I inquired, and he shook his head vehemently.

"No, through law. Protests, mailings, that sort of thing," MacDougal said. "Although a few uncles of mine have been jailed for their efforts," he admitted.

"Please go on," I said.

"Well, I wanted to do my part, of course, but I have no talent for it! I have no head for numbers, no persuasive words to convince people of the rightness of our cause. I do not even have a head for business, to run the factories. It seems the only thing I can do is study. I was always very occupied with history, and while my father was none too happy about it, he allowed me to come here to study. That's when I saw that manuscript. It's beautiful, Mr. Holmes, and the craftsmanship is second to none. When that librarian said it had been created on Iona, I lost my head completely."

"You thought it belonged in Scotland," I said.

MacDougal scowled. "Indeed, it does. We made it, why should it lie in a storeroom in England? Why, I can see it in the archives in Edinburgh, on display in the castle, or held at one of the Universities. It would be a priceless treasure to us, sir, and I could finally play a part in our cause!"

"So you took it," I said, prodding him along.

"I went back the next day, posing as any reader, and waited until the guard was called away to sneak back to the storeroom. Picking the lock was child's play, I don't think they thought anyone would make it that far," MacDougal said. "I got it out and brought it back, terrified the whole time someone would find me out. It's not easy to carry. But when I got it back, I suddenly realized what I'd done. I'd stolen from the British Museum, and worse, when I pictured myself giving the manuscript to one of our Scottish institutions, all I could think was that they would know where it had come from. I didn't know what to do! I have had it here all week. I've been paralyzed with fear, Mr. Holmes." He took the manuscript out of a drawer, where he had hidden it in a plain bag and handed it to me. I opened it gently, and he said, "I did nothing to it, sir."

"I believe you," I said, and I did. The young man in front of me, who had such reverence for his country's art, would no sooner deface it than he would kill a man. "I may take it back, I presume?"

"Of course," MacDougal said, sounding only relieved to have it out of his hands. "I cannot tell you how stressful this has been. I would have had to resort to selling it on the black market, and I did not steal it only to sell it away from Scotland again."

I nodded, and told young MacDougal that while I would have to report his crime to the police, since the manuscript had been returned unharmed and the museum was eager to keep the incident out of the press, the punishment would likely be light, and he nodded gratefully as I left, with the precious weight of the Gold Bible in my coat.

I returned to the British Museum barely one week later, to the elation of both Dr. Smith and Mr. Wilson. I was satisfied with the results of the case, but now that it was over, its ease was nagging at me. Was no one capable of planning an _interesting_ crime? What had happened to the Burkes and Hares? The Elizabeth Bathorys? At this rate, I should solve half the crimes in London before I could even begin to afford better rooms. At least I had the promise that my friends at the museum would send any interesting problems my way, but I still faced a return to my lonely study cubicle in the reading room, and a return home to my even lonelier rooms at Montague Street, where I could not even play my violin without my landlady thumping her broom on the ceiling to make me stop.

 _It will take time, you always knew that,_ I told myself. But I _would_ be a consulting detective, I could feel it so deeply I knew it to be the truth. Someday, that would make all this worth it.

* * *

A/N The monastery on the island of Iona was a center of illuminated manuscript production in the 8th and 9th centuries (the most famous one created there was the Book of Kells). The Gold Bible in this story is entirely made up for the prompt, however.


	9. Chapter 9

From Riandra - Cooking has unexpected results

* * *

In my official stories for the _Strand_ , I usually refrained from writing those moments in which Holmes and I were at odds with each other. While these occasions were rare, both of us remember more than one time in which the last person either of us wished to see was the other. It was only to be expected, after all, when two men lived together in such close quarters, and when one of those men was rightfully known for being the worst tenant in London. We always made it up to each other in the end, and preferred not to remember those times.

One December, the coldest either Holmes and I had yet remembered, found us unwilling to venture outside our front door for fear of the biting wind. There was no reason to stir from our fireside anyway, there being no interesting crimes and most events cancelled because of the cold. The result was that Holmes and I had been trapped in our rooms for several days, and it was beginning to wear on both of us.

"These dreary days do nothing for my mood, Watson," Holmes said peevishly from his armchair, his violin hanging limply from his fingertips where he had attempted to distract himself with it for the past hour.

"They do not do much for my mood either, Holmes," I said irritably from my writing desk, where I had been trying for the last two hours to finish a letter to a medical colleague, a task made more difficult by Holmes's insistence on scratching away at his violin. Now that he had stopped, I'd hoped to be allowed to finish in peace. Evidently that was not to be.

I returned to my letter, and was so occupied I did not hear Holmes's question until he repeated it twice. I sighed in annoyance as he poked my chair with his walking stick. "Watson, I asked if you would mind if I smoked?"

I turned around in some irritation. "For heaven's sake, Holmes, I have been trying to finish this letter for the better part of two hours! Can you not wait until I am done?" I had no objection to smoking, but Holmes did like a most foul mixture of tobacco and the smell, on occasion, made me dizzy. Usually I was more than willing to take myself up to my room if he wished to fill the sitting room with smoke, but today I was peeved and unwilling to move an inch.

His temper close the surface out of boredom, Holmes rose to the challenge. "I merely wished to know if I could smoke, Watson. It is not worth getting so angry about?"

" _I'm_ getting angry?" I asked in some shock. "You have been complaining these last three days about the temperature outside and the lack of criminal undertakings!"

"Well, at least if there were a case I would be occupied, instead of needing to resort to seek permission to occupy myself in my own house!" Holmes cried.

I laughed. "Do you mean to tell me that if you had a case you would not insist that I accompany you out into that dreadful weather to solve it?"

"At the moment, no, I would not!" Holmes shot back. "I would be quite glad for the excuse to leave you to your own devices, Doctor. I ask only that you leave me to the same." He sat down again with a haughty expression, and I stared at him in disbelief.

" _I,_ not leave you to your own devices? Holmes, I have never insisted on your doing anything! It is you who are so infernally set upon your own occupations taking over everyone else's!" I gestured around at the writing desk which was supposed to be mine; instead filled with half-finished monographs so that I barely had a space to work.

Holmes glared at me and sat back in his armchair in a huff, while I returned to my letter, so annoyed I did not remember where I had left off. Just when I had found my place, however, I heard raised voices on our stairs and sighed again, looking up to see Lestrade and Gregson enter our sitting room.

They were engaged in a similar disagreement to the one Holmes and I had just finished, Lestrade breathing heavily and shooting aggravated looks at his rival. "It is a simple enough solution, Lestrade, only the rugby player had enough strength of hand to so quickly strangle a man!" Gregson said as he closed the door.

"Well, forgive me if I want to determine that it is the correct solution," Lestrade said in a sneer.

Gregson scoffed. "You know that it is only because it is my theory that you are so determined to find another solution. If it were yours, you would not dare to bring it to Mr. Holmes, for fear of his discrediting you!"

"Mr. Holmes, will you tell this fellow that I am interested only in the truth of a case?" Lestrade asked.

"I am not here to play judge in the petty squabbles of the police force!" Holmes said. "If you have a case, then tell me, if not, pray have your argument elsewhere!"

"If you wish to hear the case perhaps you should go with them," I suggested. "Then I might be able to finish some work for once!"

"If you no longer wish to hear of my cases, Watson, perhaps you should be the one to leave," Holmes said in an infuriatingly calm voice. "You have a club you may take refuge in, if you so choose. I need hardly remind you that I run a business from this sitting room. That _was_ part of our original agreement when we took rooms together, unless I am very much mistaken."

"Come now, Mr. Holmes, it is bad enough when you get in the way of police business, but to yell at the Doctor?" Lestrade asked.

"I never said I no longer wished to hear of your cases, merely that I require some time to myself to work as well!" I cried, ignoring Lestrade. "You are not the only man who has official business to tend to!"

"No, but he is the only one who insists on tending to everyone else's business as well. Surely you knew that when you moved in, Doctor," Gregson said.

"Gregson, if you so dislike my intrusion into police business, however much it may be needed, perhaps you should stay out of ours," Holmes said.

"If you may offer opinions on what we are doing wrong, then it is only fair we can offer them on when you are as well," Lestrade said in an annoyingly superior tone.

The room dissolved into a shouting match, all four of us attempting to outdo the others when a loud knock on the door interrupted us. We stopped and Holmes opened the door to reveal Mrs. Hudson, standing there with a large roasted chicken, a dish of potatoes and some asparagus, all on a tray. "I've been trying to get your attention for five minutes, knocking at the door!" she said. "Your dinner's ready, and I thought since you had guests, they would like to stay as well." She placed the tray on our table and left.

We four stared at the dinner laid out, the delicious aroma of roasted chicken and gravy traveling across the room. "We may as well eat," I said gruffly, and Holmes acquiesced silently.

"Are you joining us?" I asked Lestrade, serving out potatoes.

"I, er, well, it is here, isn't it?" Lestrade said awkwardly, taking his seat. "Thank you, Doctor. Come, Gregson, if I'm going to you may as well join in."

Gregson took his seat and soon we were eating in silence, concentrating only on Mrs. Hudson's delicious cooking, until finally Gregson said, "This is rather good."

"Mrs. Hudson is quite a cook," I said stiffly.

"She is indeed," Lestrade said, and Gregson looked surprised that his rival was agreeing with him. "Oh, come now, it is a fact. Certainly compared to your last landlady, Mr. Holmes."

"Did you ever have dinner with Holmes then?" I asked.

Lestrade laughed. "Certainly not."

"I hardly ever had dinner in my rooms in those days, Watson," Holmes said. "Lestrade is correct, the landlady in my Montague Street rooms was no cook at all."

"You used to complain about her, Mr. Holmes, till we were at our wits end," Lestrade said, laughing.

"So did we, to be fair," Gregson said. "She gave more than one of us a wallop with that broomstick when we came to call on you." He shook his head with a smile as he took a sip of wine.

Holmes laughed as well. "Ahh, Watson, you don't know what a trial it was to attempt to run a business out of those rooms. These are certainly an improvement, in every way."

"It sounds like it," I said, taking a second helping of potatoes when I remembered. "Lestrade, you said you had a case?"

"Oh, well, it might be as Gregson said, that it was the rugby player," Lestrade said, looking down into his glass.

"Come now, you were right," Gregson said. "It is only in our best interest to determine the truth, and who better to do so than Mr. Holmes?"

"In that case, Watson, would you take notes?" Holmes asked, somewhat shyly, in light of our earlier argument.

I smiled, marveling at the peace which was the result of Mrs. Hudson's wonderful cooking. It hardly seemed worth anything to continue arguing, and I pulled my notebook, wanting to hear of the case Lestrade brought. "I should like nothing better," I said.


	10. Chapter 10

From mrspencil - home made Christmas tree decorations are attempted

Kind of got expanded from just Christmas tree decorations.

* * *

"He's a right Mr. Scrooge, isn't he?" Wiggins asked his Irregular comrades as they trooped down the stairs from Mr. Holmes's rooms. Mr. Holmes had been impatient with them today, which Wiggins didn't take kindly too. His young friends had done their best to find out what Mr. Holmes wanted to know, following that smuggler to his offices at the docks and nicking a lady's purse in Hyde Park after her brother had accused her of poisoning his prize guard dog. It wasn't their fault the purse contained no clues, and that young Sam was caught behind a huge fish-seller and couldn't see the meeting he'd been ordered to spy on. The lad was only eight.

"A what?" Sam asked, his hands in his pockets to make himself look older and more confident.

Wiggins sighed. "Mr. Scrooge. He's an old man what hates Christmas in a book Dr. Watson let me borrow." Wiggins had to admit that, as much as he liked Mr. Holmes, it was easier to work with him when the Doctor was around. Dr. Watson often tried to make Mr. Holmes see the difficulties of what he asked his young charges to do, and sometimes sewed them up if they got into scrapes. He'd also taken charge of trying to teach them a little, saying that Mr. Holmes only cared if they knew how to identify a sailor from a soldier. Most of them hadn't liked that much, Wiggins remembered, but he'd taken to it after a time. 'Specially once the Doctor told him how all those great stories he told came out of books.

Eleven year old Melinda shrugged. "He just misses the Doctor, that's all."

"Well, so do I," Wiggins said grumpily. Dr. Watson had got himself married a few months back, and now he was hardly ever about at 221b anymore.

Sam frowned. "Well, maybe if we make Mr. Holmes a nice Christmas, he won't be Scrooge anymore!" he grinned up at them, his missing tooth ruining the effect of his attempts to appear older.

"Come on, how are we supposed to make Mr. Holmes have Christmas?" Wiggins asked. He'd never had much of a Christmas; the closest he'd ever come was when Mrs. Hudson baked them all biscuits to take home. Wiggins smiled at that, remembering his little sisters' delight as he brought the platter home. Didn't do much for his mum, but then, nothing did except the bottle. He drew his coat around himself; soon enough he'd be old enough to really work and then he'd get them all a place of their own. Mr. Holmes was going to get him a position someday, he'd said so, and a voucher from Mr. Holmes was worth its weight in gold.

Melinda shrugged. "I can make him some ornaments if you get him a tree."

"Come off it, where am I supposed to get a Christmas tree in the middle of London?" Wiggins asked.

"What kind of detective are you going to be if you can't figure it out?" Melinda asked calmly. Wiggins glared at her. She always had an answer. Probably why she was the only girl in the Baker Street Irregulars. But she was a good second in command and besides, she was right.

So Wiggins left his friends and headed to his favorite rubbish heap, where he sometimes found clothes good for disguising and toys not too beat up to give to his sisters. He rummaged through it until he found a twisted hat stand. He stood it up, looking at it. It wouldn't be too bad. They could probably make it straight somehow.

He knocked on Melinda's door the next morning with his tree. She eyed it for a few seconds, then pulled out several grey yarn blobs. "What are those?" Wiggins asked.

"Ornaments," Melinda said. She held up a battered crochet hook. "It was my gran's, and she taught me a bit 'fore she died." Wiggins looked at the grey yarn blobs. They were _almost_ star shaped, if he tilted his head and squinted. "Only don't pull on them because I think they'll unravel," Melinda finished, turning a bit red. Wiggins grinned. She wasn't much good at girl things, she would do as well on the police force as he would. Too bad that wasn't the kind of job Mr. Holmes could get her.

They hid the tree at Melinda's, because she had a wardrobe, and Wiggins didn't think about it for the next two days until he was awoken at seven in the morning by a knock. He groaned. "Who's'at?" he said, opening the door bleary-eyed and checking to make sure none of his sisters had woken up.

He was greeted by a pile of sticks. Or, rather, a pile of sticks with Sam's grinning face in the middle. "I made a wreath!" Sam said happily. "For Mr. Holmes!"

Wiggins looked at it. He'd been by the Watsons' last night, just to see, and their wreath was full and green with a ribbon. This was a circle of brown stick. "Where'd you get it?" he asked.

"I broke off enough sticks in the park," Sam said. "And then I bent them together and begged some string from the butcher to tie them." He smiled proudly and Wiggins nodded.

"It's a good wreath, Sam," he said. "Just needs a ribbon." He searched his flat, finding only some crumpled newspaper and an old red scarf. He frowned. "I bet I can tie this," he said, tearing the newspaper into strips and managing to tie them into a passable bow. "There!" he said stuffing it into the wreath so it stayed in place.

"It looks like a real wreath, Wiggins!" Sam said. "What about the scarf?"

Wiggins looked it over. It was still bright red, but with multiple holes, and he didn't think anyone would miss it. He wrapped it around the wreath until it almost looked like stripes. "There. A real wreath for Mr. Holmes. Now, let's go get the tree."

They collected both Melinda and their tree and walked it slowly all the way to Baker Street, Wiggins scolding the other two every time they stumbled with the tree between them.

"You'll make the ornaments fall!"

Melinda scowled at him. "I told you we shouldn't put them on 'till we got there!"

"No matter, we're here now," Wiggins said, knocking on the door. Mrs. Hudson answered with a smile.

"Oh, good, I was wondering when I'd get to give you your Christmas cookies!" Then she looked at the wreath and tree suspiciously. "What are those?"

"It's a Christmas tree!" Sam said brightly. "For Mr. Holmes, since he's sad the Doctor left!"

Mrs. Hudson looked surprised, and then smiled. "You urchins are the most ingenious people I know, consulting detectives included," she said, and Wiggins grinned. "You go on up," Mrs. Hudson continued. "I'm sure he'll be thrilled."

Wiggins knocked quietly on the sitting room door, opening it when he heard Mr. Holmes's voice say, "Come in."

"What is it, Wiggins, I have a great deal to do, and I haven't asked you for an update," he said, without looking up from his writing desk.

"We're not here for an update," Wiggins said, standing straighter than usual. "We wanted to give you these." He put the tree down and held up the wreath. He realized he was holding his breath, and then felt extremely stupid. What had made them think Mr. Holmes would want their things? He had his own decorations; last year he'd had a real tree, even though the Doctor had bought it and not told him. Their decorations were childish. Poor. Not for the likes of Mr. Holmes.

Mr. Holmes turned around, taking in their tree and wreath. "Is that a Christmas tree?" he asked.

"Yes, sir!" Sam burst out, clapping a hand over his mouth when Wiggins shot him a glare. _He_ was the one who was supposed to talk to Mr. Holmes.

Mr. Holmes bent to inspect it. "Did you make the ornaments, Melinda?"

Melinda nodded, her usual sure ways gone in the face of the intimidating detective. "Wiggins found the tree," she said.

"And who is responsible for this…wreath?" Mr. Holmes asked.

"I am!" Sam said. "See, it's tree branches and I put them together and tied them up!"

"Did you make the bow too?" Mr. Holmes asked.

"No, I did," Wiggins said quietly. He looked up, feeling like he had to explain himself. "We saw you didn't have decorations up, 'cause the Doctor's not here, and we made them."

"Oh," Mr. Holmes said. "Well, I have to say I barely noticed, but in that case, I think we'll have to put these up, don't we?" He took the wreath and fixed it to the outside of the sitting room door with a dart from his pocket. He smiled. "There. Now, where to put this tree?"

"Right over there!" Sam said, gaining his confidence. "By the table!"

"Ah, yes, of course!" Mr. Holmes said, placing the tree carefully in the corner by the window, next to his breakfast table. He stepped back and looked at it. "It does make the room brighter."

Wiggins was shocked. He _liked_ them? Mr. Holmes, who had dined with nobles and worked with the government liked _their_ handmade decorations?

Mr. Holmes saw the look on his face and smiled. "Wiggins, do you think honors from every government in the land are equal to those from one's own comrades in arms? If you do, then you do not know me as well as I had thought."

Wiggins puffed up with pride. Comrade in arms, _him._ Well, him and Melinda and Sam, and all the other Irregulars. Comrades with the greatest detective in the world.

"Now that you are here, would you join me for breakfast?" Mr. Holmes asked. "I find my meals are quiet of late. I would enjoy the company."

Wiggins grinned. "Yes, sir, Mr. Holmes! Thank you!" Melinda and Sam nodded next to him, and Mr. Holmes rang the bell for Mrs. Hudson.

"Excellent. I'll have more sausage ordered," Mr. Holmes said. "Thank you very much, by the way. The rooms are cheerier, and much more Christmas-like. Watson would be pleased." He paused, then said, "Perhaps you should make him some decorations as well."

The glint of humor in his eyes told Wiggins he was teasing, but then again, with Mr. Holmes, it was impossible to be sure.


	11. Chapter 11

From Hades Lord of the Dead - Write an AU of The Three Garridebs

A/N I couldn't resist with a prompt like this. Massive amounts of angst ahead.

* * *

I heard the gunshot – I confess an altercation was not entirely unexpected when we came here - and I hastily brought my own gun down on the American's head, knocking him down. His gun clattered across the floor, and I glared at him, satisfied, before turning around. "You're not hurt-"

It was as if the floor had suddenly dropped out from under me. I took in the scene without believing it, and to this day, I cannot make a clear picture of it in my mind. I know I only saw Watson's blue eyes staring sightlessly at me from where he was curled on the floor where he'd fallen. I cried out, running toward him. "Watson!" I said sharply. "Watson, for God's sake, you're not-!"

I broke off. There could be no answer, not ever again, I finally realized, as my reason caught up to me. I tore my gaze away from his face to see the wound. There was one, only. Directly in his heart. I needed no medical training to know death would have been instantaneous. I stepped back, horrified and felt the blood on my hands. So much blood. I tried to wipe it off in an increasing frenzy as it only spread further. But then, it was not only physical blood on my hands. No, I had brought Watson here today and so no matter what else, this was my fault.

Would always be my fault.

I heard a noise as the man we had hoped to catch began shuffling and groaning, trying to get up, and I stood up slowly, rage pulsing to the beat of my heart. This – this…there was no word for this _thing_ lying on the floor at my feet and I kicked his gun farther away.

He looked up at me, his expression becoming terrified as he saw me. "I swear, I didn't mean to kill him, sir!" he said shakily.

"Didn't mean to kill him," I repeated. Is that supposed to make it better? That my dear Watson died in vain at the hands of someone who _did not mean to kill him?_ I realized belatedly that my own gun was still in my hands, and I slowly cocked it, taking pleasure in the slowness of the movement and how his eyes widened as he realized he had not a single hope left.

"You wouldn't…not in cold blood!" he said, trying to sound confident. How low of him, truly.

"Wouldn't I?" I said, pointing the gun at him. "I am not the police, nor am I constrained by their rules. By _my_ word and _my_ law, you will not get out of this room alive."

He cowered at my feet and I sat him up roughly. I needed a clear shot, and it would have a certain poetic irony if it were to be the same type of wound that killed him as had killed Watson. He squeezed his eyes shut and I smiled, for what I was sure was to be the last time.

The gunshot was loud, satisfyingly so, and the murderer crumpled at my feet, blood pouring out of the wound in his heart.

It was not until then that the true horror hit him, in a sudden visualization of the rest of my life stretching out before me without Watson in it. A vast blackness of loneliness that I could not face, and I was dimly aware that I dropped my gun and fell to my knees at Watson's side. I knew nowhere else that I should be, and I kept waiting for the vast _nothing_ to become something, some plan, some knowledge that I had something to do. Watson would have known; would have asked me something to bring me out of my reverie.

 _Watson, please say something._

I do not know how long I sat there. I became aware at one point that I was cold, shivering, and that the room was growing dark around me. After a time, I heard the door open and footsteps enter.

"Holmes? Come on, now Holmes-" a voice I recognized, although at the moment I could not place it, broke off in horror as its owner took in the scene.

"I killed him," I said dully, and I still do not know if I was referring to Watson or to his murderer. "I killed him, Lestrade." Instinct remembered what my mind, reeling with horror, had forgotten, and Lestrade's face took shape in front of me.

I sat there while Lestrade presumably took in the scene, and began to grow irrationally annoyed. It did not take all that time to realize what had happened. Watson was _dead._ What else mattered?

"Holmes?" Lestrade said. "I – I have to take you in." He picked up my wrists and fitted handcuffs around them, which I allowed. Of course he had to take me in. Surely it was the highest and worst crime of all to cause the murder of one's closest friend.

Lestrade was, to his credit, gentle with me as he pulled me to my feet and supported me to the door. I tell him so every time he visits, which he does regularly, also to his credit. There was something…something I had to do, was there not? "Lestrade," I said thickly. "He – he must be buried." For the first time, my voice choked. _No, no that was wrong, I could not do it._

"I'll see to it, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, and I believe his own voice was breaking. "The coroner's on his way." _So soon? No, not yet. There must be time to say goodbye. I haven't said goodbye._

"He'll treat the Doctor with respect, I'll see to that," Lestrade said.

"With – with Mary," I said. It seemed, at the time, very important that I tell someone that, if only for Watson's sake. For myself, it did not matter where he was.

It only mattered that he was not _here._

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said.

"Sir, what about the other?" another voice said. Was there someone else here? I hadn't noticed, and Lestrade stopped.

"You can throw him in the Thames for all I care," Lestrade answered heatedly, and I allowed a mirthless chuckle to escape, one that quickly turned into a sob. Yes, the Thames would do for such a monster.

I was aware of very little else after that. Lestrade tells me I spent the night in the police station, and that he fought to have me given a solitary cell instead of being placed with the common criminals. If this is true, and I have no reason to doubt him, then I am grateful. They tell me I lost two days of memories.

They are wrong. I remember those two days very well, in excruciating detail. I was unaware of everything going on around me, but I was very aware of what I was thinking, and those two days were a maelstrom of horrible scenes playing across my mind. The sound of gunshots, sightless eyes staring at me, the yawning black emptiness that now followed me in the absence of Watson's presence, as if it had been waiting for him to be gone all these years to get at me.

I remember it all.

The first thing I remember being aware of after those two horrible days is Lestrade entering my cell. "Mr. Holmes?" he asked tentatively. He went on when I gave no answer. "I – I thought you'd want to know, the funeral is today."

 _So quickly?_

"We, er, we have enough information to charge you," Lestrade continued uncertainly. "Murder, first degree."

"I shall plead guilty," I said, the first time I spoke since leaving that hideous room. "Watson is dead because of me."

"Well, er, the charge is for killing Evans, the American…" Lestrade said, trailing off when I glared at him. "Never mind."

I nodded. It did not matter what the charge was. Killing _him_ was necessary, if I was to serve time, it was to be for Watson.

"Er, they told us," Lestrade said, clearing his throat, "that you're not to attend the funeral."

 _What? No. NO. I have to go. I need to be there. To apologize._

"That is why I slipped this out of the guard's pocket," Lestrade continued, turning the key over in his hands and opening the cell door. "You're under my strict supervision, Holmes, but none of the Yarders will think anything about you being there. They know you should be."

I stared at him. I should thank him, but my tongue was refusing to work.

"You don't have to say anything," Lestrade said gently. "If it was up to me, I wouldn't have charged you at all. There's not a man here who wouldn't have done the same."

I only nodded, but he seemed to understand. I felt, as we got into the waiting cab, as if I was going to my funeral. I could not imagine what I would do after this. There was only the black emptiness waiting, and I suddenly wanted the cab ride to go on forever. The end of all the rituals associated with Watson's death would mean the end of Watson, entirely. Everyone else would go on, back to their work, their families, their lives.

What would I do? I huddled down in my coat as the answer went off into the blackness. _Prison_ , I thought. It could hardly make any difference _where_ I was anymore.

I confess I do not remember the funeral - perhaps I should, I was in the front row, Lestrade next to me so I was protected from the stares of everyone else attending. I only remember the sight of the casket. Black. Rimmed in gold. Thankfully closed. And I remember how I closed my eyes when they took it away, unable to watch.

 _Watson, I am sorry. So sorry._

"Take me back," I said urgently to Lestrade.

"Holmes, we're all going to the cemetery," he said.

"Take me _back_!" I said sharply. I had no wish to watch Watson lowered into the ground, and certainly no wish to remember the stone that would be the only remnant of him for however long it would last. Until it weathered, and no one would remember him at all.

"Alright, we'll go," Lestrade said. I realized later he had probably wanted to stay, to say goodbye, but at the time I had no care for that, and only now am I grateful that he listened to me.

I have been in this cell in some prison whose name I have no interest in ever since. Lestrade visits, as does Gregson, and on the whole I am not uncomfortable. I have much time for myself, and that is the only downside. Once I would have relished it, now, I feel I would sell my very soul for some company, if only to stop the memories. Sometimes they are so real I feel as if Watson is in the cell with me, at others, that time feels so far away it is impossible to believe I did not dream him up in some fever.

Oh, well. I have little time left, I am sure, and no care at all for this world. What once would have shaken me to my core; the loss of my faculties, now only makes it easier to let go. It has been a long enough time in coming, and perhaps soon, I shall at last have some relief.


	12. Chapter 12

From W. Y. Traveller - Winter memories

* * *

In the year 1894, after my friend Sherlock Holmes's return from his three-year sojourn, it sometimes seemed as if we were two entirely different people beginning to share rooms together, needing to come to know one another again. At first I thought it should be easy to overcome, but as the months went on, we were still unsure of each other, even after I had returned to live at 221b Baker Street again.

By the Christmas season, Holmes was more festive than I had ever yet seen him. In previous years, he showed no more interest in Christmas than in any other day of the year, although he did take part in such little festivities as I enjoyed. I, on the other hand, had always loved the holiday, but in the aftermath of my beloved Mary's death and the shock of Holmes's return, I was feeling considerably down on the whole idea. I felt it would do much more good to attempt to return to something akin to normalcy.

I remained quiet and somewhat dreary about the idea throughout December, as our shared sitting room filled up with stockings, wreaths, a tree and all the other trappings of Christmas, purchased by Holmes and presented with cheer. I believe he thought celebrating the holiday would do me good, knowing how I had loved it, but in this instance, his ordinarily excellent abilities were off the mark.

"Watson," my friend said to me one day. "I know you have not been yourself as of late…" he trailed off, and I began to feel rather badly for him. He had undoubtedly been looking forward to spending his first Christmas at home, with those of us he called friends, and here I was being most uncooperative. He must have been at quite a loss, wondering how best to cheer me up.

"Do not worry yourself, Holmes," I said. "I am only sure that it will take some time. Many things have changed."

"Yes," Holmes agreed. He took out a small, leather-bound book. "I thought, since the holidays do not seem to be doing us any good, that you would like to hear some of what I did in my three-year absence." I remained silent, and he went on quickly. "As I would certainly like to hear of yours, Watson. We have a great deal of catching up to do."

Catching up that we had not yet done, in spite of the long months since his return. Perhaps _that_ accounted for the sudden difference between us. I confess I had been growing worried about it, afraid that I was throwing away the second chance we had been given. "Yes, Holmes," I said. "I would like that very much."

Holmes smiled. "Ah, then, let me see." He flipped pages through the book, then looked out the window. "You know, Watson, I have not seen a true winter in three years."

"No?" I said. I knew some of the places he had visited, and I wondered which countries he had spent his Christmases in.

Holmes nodded. "I see here that I spent Christmas, 1891, in our holdings in Palestine. Oh, those were not happy days, Watson. I was very often in fear of my life."

"From Colonel Moran?" I asked, knowing how the ex-Army man had hunted my friend across the Empire.

"Oh, no, Watson. From our own intelligence operatives! You see, during my years abroad, my brother gave me some identification papers, so that I might be said to be on a mission for the government." He scoffed. "Of course, my brother insisted that the cover be as realistic as possible, so I was acting, if you will, as a government agent, reporting to the governors there and ensuring that our colonies were well-run. I can say that the intelligence operatives already in place were none too happy with my presence, and contrived to make my job as difficult and dangerous as possible."

I imagined Holmes, perhaps hiding in some dark room, trying to navigate the unfriendly territory of our Near Eastern holdings.

"That Christmas," I said slowly. "Mary and I did not celebrate the holidays."

Holmes grew confused. "Whyever not?"

"We were in mourning, of course," I said, and then sighed at his look of confusion. "For you, Holmes!"

"Oh," my friend said, his cheeks turning a slight red. "I am sorry, Watson. I was quite in my own isolated world during those years, with only my brother as a contact. You know how I am when I spend too much time with him."

I laughed. "Indeed, Holmes." The Holmes brothers, while fond of each other, were too similar to do other than irritate each other after a certain amount of time. The three years must have been a trial in that regard.

"In 1892," Holmes said, turning to a new page of his journal, "I was in Tibet. It is a cold, flat land, Watson. Empty of all but prayer flags, small towns and monasteries. I spent Christmas that year attempting to reach enlightenment." He paused. "I need hardly say that I failed. My mind cannot be emptied and tuned to the wider meanings of life so easily."

I smiled. Holmes's great intellect, while the most admirable I had ever encountered, was naturally suited to the minute and detailed. He was so purely _of_ the world that separating himself from it was sure to prove impossible. I can only imagine how much of a nuisance he must have made of himself to the monks. "In 1892," I said, "Mary and I were guests at Scotland Yard's annual Christmas party." It had been most kind of them to invite me, although in my capacity as sometime police surgeon, I was technically an employee of the force. "I believe that was the year Gregson attempted to convince Hopkins that he should throw snowballs at Lestrade the next time they met." I laughed at the memory. Lestrade hated nothing so much as the cold and the snow. Hopkins had been well near believing Gregson before Bradstreet and I intervened.

"You likely saved that young man's career," Holmes remarked when I had finished. He opened his journal to a later page. "Last year, Watson, I spent in France, but I hardly saw the outside of the small garret I used as my lab. I had to stay totally incognito, you understand, as I am nearly as well known in France as in England. I saw no one for weeks at a time, working fervently at my chemistry set. I did not even know Christmas had arrived until I heard the church bells."

I could only imagine how much greater my friend's hardship was in France than in the far-flung corners of the Empire, where he could at least step outside his own door and rely upon his brother's allies. How strange, that he should have been so close to home yet so much farther from safety.

But still, my own memories from last year were no better. By December, my dear Mary's cough had become something neither of us could ignore, and I was spared even the kindness of hope, trained as I was in medicine. We spent that Christmas quietly, largely by her bedside, trying to eke some semblance of peace all the while knowing it was to be our last together. "Last year," I said to Holmes, then sighed, "would have beautiful, really, if not for the spectre that hung over us. The house was decorated, and we spent every moment together." I looked up at him, suddenly aware that I would be spending this holiday utterly alone if not for his return. "I am…very grateful you returned, Holmes." It was the first time I had said so, and my friend smiled and laid a thin hand on my arm.

"As am I, my dear fellow."


	13. Chapter 13

From Aleine Skyfire - Lestrade takes care of a sick Irregular, h/c.

A/N Not entirely sure how h/c this ended up being, but I did try.

* * *

"I'm here for Detective Inspector Lestrade." The thin voice, nearly broken but not quite there yet, traveled across the room at Scotland Yard and Lestrade turned around to recognize young Wiggins.

"Yes, Wiggins, what is it?" Lestrade asked. He'd grown quite used to Holmes's young errand boys over the years, although several of the officers looked askance at the boy's tattered clothes and grimy appearance. Lestrade ignored them; he'd been skeptical enough about the "Baker Street Irregulars," as Holmes termed his brigade of young street urchins, but they had proven their worth more than once. They were considerably more disciplined than several officers he could mention and he waved Wiggins over to his desk.

"Plans for the building Mr. Holmes is scoping out tonight," Wiggins said, handing a thin file across the desk.

"Ah, finally decided to give us some warning of where he'll be so we can make sure he doesn't come out dead?" Lestrade asked. Wiggins smiled weakly, and the official detective eyed him in concern. He looked decidedly pale. "Are you feeling alright, lad?"

"I'll be fine," Wiggins said, coughing into his sleeve. "Mr. Holmes said you have histories on some of the men he's after?"

"Oh, yes," Lestrade said, giving Wiggins a thicker file. "He'll find those useful, I expect."

"Yes, sir," Wiggins said, getting up and swaying slightly.

"Hold on!" Lestrade said suddenly, recognizing the signs of a bad head cold and helping Wiggins back into the seat. "When's the last time you had something hot to eat?"

Wiggins coughed again. "Can't remember. Had this cold for a week at least." His voice sounded nasal and Lestrade handed him a handkerchief.

"Thank you, sir," Wiggins said. "Sorry. I don't mean to be a bother."

Lestrade smiled. "No matter. I've got three of my own, and I saw them all through the chicken pox." He reached out and felt Wiggins's forehead. It felt slightly hot, and he frowned. "Hold on a minute."

"Can't," Wiggins said. "I've got to get this to Mr. Holmes." He started getting up and Lestrade all but pushed him back into the seat.

"Mr. Holmes can wait for his precious files," Lestrade said sharply. "He ought to know better than to let you run errands for him in this condition. Why, I'm surprised the Doctor let you out of his sight!" Doctor Watson had been looking after the Irregulars, and in some cases, their families, ever since he'd moved in. It was often too little in the face of the poverty of London's lower classes, but at least someone was doing _something._

Wiggins smiled for the first time. "Dr. Watson was at the hospital, doing his rounds."

"Oh, so that's why," Lestrade said. He found a blanket and wrapped it around the boy's shoulders. "Here, let me get you some tea." He paused. "Unless you feel sick to your stomach?" He was perfectly willing to care for Holmes's Irregulars if there was no one else, but he did _not_ want to clean up after someone who was truly ill.

Wiggins smiled. "No, tea sounds nice. Thank you, Inspector."

Lestrade brought him his tea and sat behind the desk. "You can stay here until you feel a little better, alright?"

"Yes, sir," Wiggins said, and Lestrade got down to work, filling out reports on a previous case. "Is that one of Mr. Holmes's?" Wiggins asked curiously.

"No, contrary to what he might be telling you, we _are_ capable of solving crimes without him," Lestrade said.

"One or two, here and there?" Wiggins asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Lestrade raised an eyebrow and Wiggins smiled. "That's what he says, sir."

"Hmm, no, considerably more than one or two," Lestrade answered. Wiggins coughed again, more violently, and Lestrade watched him carefully out of the corner of his eye. If it kept up like this, he'd send the boy in a cab off to Dr. Watson's hospital. But it soon stopped, and Lestrade went back to work.

"So, was it a murder?" Wiggins asked.

"This?" Lestrade said, gesturing to his report. "No, no, simply a man who accused his secretary of stealing from his profits."

"Oh," Wiggins said. "The last leader of the Irregulars, he's a secretary now, at a pawn shop."

"Is he?" Lestrade asked, vaguely recalling a different boy, taller and lankier than Wiggins, who had been Holmes's message boy in those days. He must have grown up now, leaving Wiggins in charge.

Wiggins nodded. "Pawn shop owner was a friend of Mr. Holmes's. He gets all of us positions, sir."

Lestrade put down his report, surprised. "Does he, now?" He hadn't thought Holmes capable of such feeling, certainly not for a bunch of little street urchins. It appeared he had misjudged the man. He looked Wiggins over. Thirteen, maybe fourteen years of age. "He'll be finding you a position soon, I wager."

Wiggins smiled and then coughed again. "He wants to send me to the police academy in a few years, Inspector."

"He _does_?" Lestrade asked in shock, before his mind caught up with him. That was actually not a bad idea. The boy certainly had experience with crime, and Lestrade himself had only just unfavorably compared his own deputies to the Irregulars. "Well, you keep up the work you've been doing and you'll make a fine officer," he said.

Wiggins's eyes opened wide. "You mean that, Inspector?"

Lestrade smiled. "I certainly do. There's no better training in law enforcement than working for Sherlock Holmes. I learn a thing or two from him, now and then." He realized what he had said and added warningly, "Do not ever tell him I said so, you hear me?"

Wiggins grinned. "I won't, Inspector." He coughed again, considerably more violently, and Lestrade came around his desk and patted the boy on the shoulder.

"Is there someone we can call for you? I don't like sending you off alone if you're ill like this."

Wiggins shook his head. "No, sir, I'm alright. Thank you, though."

"Well, if you need anything, you let me know," Lestrade said. Someone ought to do something about the children of London, really.

"Thank you," Wiggins said. "You're all good to us, you know, all the people Mr. Holmes knows. It's a real stroke of luck, for those of us who get to work for him."

Lestrade wondered suddenly just _how_ Holmes picked children for his little band of crime-fighters before shaking his head. "I'm glad to hear it, lad."

"I better be going. He'll be looking for his file," Wiggins said.

"Here, I'll call you a cab. My treat," Lestrade said. "Don't want you walking all the way back to Baker Street in that weather."

"English weather, you mean?" Wiggins asked, and Lestrade laughed.

"Yes, exactly." He saw Wiggins off, instructing the cabbie to go direct to Baker Street, and went back in to see at least three deputies attempting to figure out how to pry open a drawer they'd locked their keys in. He rolled his eyes. Perhaps a force made up entirely of former Baker Street Irregulars was a better idea than any of them would have thought.


	14. Chapter 14

From mrspencil - include geese, a Christmas tree and a sledge in a festive tale

* * *

It was, if I recall, a winter's morning sometime in 1920, when I was awakened by the sound of my friend Sherlock Holmes stomping around the floor of the little cottage we now shared in Sussex Downs. Once awake, I could hardly understand how I had remained asleep with the bright winter's light streaming through the windows. It reflected off the newly-fallen snow so that I could barely open my eyes even indoors.

"Holmes?" I asked, venturing downstairs. "What the devil is going on?" It reminded me of years gone by, when I would often find myself woken up at some ungodly hour to chase some criminal or another through the streets of London. I confess, I did think that as a retired gentleman, Holmes might be less inclined to insisting we be out of our beds before ten o'clock in the morning.

Evidently, I was mistaken.

"Ah, Watson, there you are!" my friend said with a broad smile. "Come, it is the perfect day for the start of the Christmas festivities."

"Christmas…Holmes, it is only the 14 of December!" I said, eyeing him warily. "Are you feeling alright?"

Holmes laughed. "Yes, of course, Watson. What better way to begin the Christmas season than with cutting down our own Christmas tree? I often used to do the same with my father when I was a boy, and well…it has been quite a long time since I have had the opportunity to do so again."

Of course. I quite understood. Last year, neither of us had much stomach for celebrating, the memories of the war still too close. The previous five years had been those awful years of the war itself, and the two before that Holmes was undercover in America. My eyes widened in some shock. Had it really been eight years since we had celebrated Christmas together? "Very well, Holmes, lead on!" I said gaily.

"Excellent," Holmes said. "There is a useful little copse of trees several miles north of here and we should have an easy time of it by sledge today." He led me outside where a sturdy sledge and a pair of strong, brown horses stood waiting.

"Holmes?" I asked. "Where did you get the sledge?" He owned no such thing, I was sure. We did not even have a stable.

Holmes laughed. "They are all Stackhurst's, Watson. I begged the use of them today in exchange for some of my best jars of honey."

I smiled. "You will have to invite him for dinner sometime, Holmes. He is a very nice neighbor." He was our only real neighbor; the rest all lived several miles away. Even Stackhurst's farm was a walk of about thirty minutes away from the cottage.

"I shall," Holmes said. "But first, our tree!" he gave the reins a snap and the horses took off, the sledge flying over the snow with ease. It was a most enjoyable trip, wrapped as we were in scarves, mittens and our heaviest coats. The day was perfectly clear, and in no time at all, we had reached a small copse of pine trees.

"Any of these will work well," I said. The ceilings of our little cottage were small, and could not have taken a tree with much more height than those we saw here, which were al short and squat. I breathed in the pine scent and smiled.

"I think that one will work," Holmes said, pointing toward a tree in the middle. "Shall we cut it down?" he brandished a saw that was nearly half his height in length and I stepped back.

"Holmes, are you handy with a saw?" I had never seen him use one, but memories of his cavalier attitude towards firearms rose up in my mind.

My friend gave me a peevish look. "Come, Watson, with both of us, we should have the tree down in no time!"

"Very well," I said. I held the tree steady while Holmes began to saw at its base. Very little time had passed before he was breathing heavily. I smiled down at him. "Perhaps we should have asked Stackhurst to come with us," I suggested.

Holmes looked up at me with annoyance. "Watson, between the two of us we are surely still capable of cutting down our own Christmas tree!" He went on with his sawing, and I sighed good naturedly. He often stubbornly refused to see our advancing ages, although he and I were both in better health than I would have believed possible, given all that we had been through.

I turned my head and spied a small flock of birds moving towards us. "Look, Holmes, I daresay we may have found our Christmas goose as well," I said.

Holmes turned to look at the geese, and as I looked in the other direction, I soon realized that we were surrounded. "Watson, have you ever seen geese act like this?" Holmes asked, as the flock of geese advanced on us. He stood up and we instinctively moved closer together.

"How should I know? Until last year I spent most of my life in cities," I said. Holmes was brandishing his saw again, as if it was a sword, and I said, "What are you going to do, saw them in half as they attack us?"

"They are not going to _attack_ , Watson, and if they did-" Holmes broke off as one of the geese flapped its wing and came soaring at him.

I could not help but laugh heartily and Holmes glared at me as he cautiously stepped out from behind the tree where he'd hidden. "Oh, come now, it's funny!" I said. "You were not so scared when you went to face Moriarty!"

"Moriarty did not have _wings_ , Watson," Holmes said, annoyed, which only made me laugh harder. Perhaps he realized what was funny, because he began to smile as well.

"Oof!" I cried out as a goose came at me from behind and knocked me forward. I tried to get up and no fewer than five geese were soon flapping their wings and pecking on top of me. Holmes, from what I could see of him, was laughing uncontrollably. "For heaven's sake, Holmes, will you help me?" I said sharply.

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry, Watson," Holmes said, although he was still laughing. "Get off him, birds. I said, _get off!"_ No sooner did he push one bird away than another took its place, but after several minutes I managed to push the rest aside and stand up. I brushed the snow off of myself and glared at the geese, now watching us innocently.

"Shall we finish chopping down this tree and get out of here?" I asked.

"I think so," Holmes said. "Keep the geese away, will you, Watson?" He went back to sawing the tree down, and I watched the geese warily. A few times, one would nip at my hands, and I had to shoo it away angrily. The longer I watched the geese, the more I became convinced that they were conspiring among themselves to make our task harder.

"Holmes, are you almost done?" I asked over my shoulder, not taking my eyes off the geese.

"Yes, I think I'm about there!" Holmes called. A second later, I heard the telltale thump of the tree hitting the snow. "Excellent. Watson, come here and help me drag it to the sledge."

"Alright," I said. No sooner had I turned my back than I heard a swarm of honking and I looked behind me to see all the geese flapping their wings and coming toward us. "Holmes, come on, let's go!" I said. The entire flock numbered about twenty geese and I had no desire to be attacked by so many.

"Not without our tree!" Holmes said, and I grabbed several branches on one side, while he took the other. We started to run, dragging the tree behind us, hearing the flapping of wings that meant the geese were gaining on us. "Hurry, Watson!" he said, urging me on.

We at last made it to the sledge and hurriedly pushed the tree up onto the floor, leaving pine needles all over the snow. We hastily climbed up into our seats and Holmes gave the reins a snap. We left the entire flock of geese standing there, looking confused and honking after us, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Well," I said. "I have been chased by many things in all the years I've known you, Holmes, but none so strange as that."

"Yes, I wonder what it was that made them act that way," Holmes mused, taking a Christmas cookie out of his pocket and munching on it with one hand. I stared at him.

"Holmes, did you have cookies in your pocket the entire time?"

"Why, yes. Christmas cookies that young Hopkins' wife sent us, don't you remember?" he answered.

"Holmes, do you not realize that _those geese were trying to get at those cookies?_ " I asked, somewhat annoyed.

"Oh," Holmes said, turning red. "No, I did not realize…Watson, I am sorry."

I looked at him, and then, unable to remain annoyed, began to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it, and after a few moments, he joined in. "It certainly is an interesting start to the Christmas season," I said. I was rather glad, at the end of it all, that our being retired in the country did not mean an end to the strange and odd things that always happened to us. It seemed that living with Sherlock Holmes would _always_ have a way of bringing the oddities of life right to us, or in this case, of bringing us to them.


	15. Chapter 15

From W. Y. Traveller - Mrs. Hudson buys a unique gift for Holmes

* * *

I had only just returned from a long day spent trailing a dockworker, at the request of his wife, as she believed he was responsible for the continual disappearance of the money she earned from selling flowers. I knew for a fact he was not (surely a man who borrowed illicit funds from his wife would be either better dressed or considerably drunker) but I had to follow the proper channels of an investigation.

Sometimes needing to prove what I found so easy to tell from a simple look was grating to me. I sighed; at least now I should be able to move on to a different channel and catch the flower supplier who I was certain was the real culprit. I could not wait until I could leave behind these petty cases and take up those affairs of greater interest to me. Soon, I thought, I should be the last recourse for all those problems which proved too unusual for the common police.

This thought proved such a happy one that I barely noticed when I nearly walked into Mrs. Hudson. "Do forgive me, Mrs. Hudson," I said.

"Oh, that is quiet alright, Mr. Holmes," she answered. "As it happens, I was just looking for you."

"What for? Do you have a case for me?" I asked, a little too eagerly, I think.

My landlady sighed. "Sadly, no, Mr. Holmes. I only wanted to give you this." She held out a small wrapped box, which I stared at in some confusion. Was it Christmas? Actually, I believe it was, I realized belatedly. I frowned. Receiving presents from my landlady was an entirely new experience for me; as, for that matter, was receiving edible meals and any modicum of respect. I took the box gingerly, and Mrs. Hudson watched me expectantly. I unwrapped the box to reveal a simple collar, white and stiff with starch.

I looked at the collar, entirely unable to understand what my landlady meant by this. Were my collars not stiff enough? Were they not gentleman-like enough for her? "Why, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I managed to say. "I must say, I don't-"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson said. "It is an anti-garrote collar!" I stared at her and smiled and went on brightly. "You see?" She pressed lightly on the collar, and instantly, several small blades shot out. "They were all the rage about twenty or so years ago, when everyone was afraid of being strangled on the streets every time they went outside. I was lucky I managed to find a place that still sold them."

I am very grateful to say that I resisted the urge to laugh. She did look so proud of herself for buying it. "I thought you could use something like this, in your line of work, Mr. Holmes. Why, you never know who could come after you, if you're investigating some truly horrible crime!"

Sadly, none of the "crimes" I had investigated thus far could truly be called horrible, save for the Jefferson Hope case earlier this year. Neither, I was afraid to say, would this anti-garrote collar be terribly useful. It was one of those devices invented to soothe a frightened public into believing they could protect themselves with some gadget that was more likely to malfunction and cause damage to its owner than any would-be assailant. This collar, for instance, was much more likely to accidentally slip one its knives through my throat than to cut the hand of any man who attempted to strangle me.

Still, Mrs. Hudson had obviously thought long and hard about what she should give me that would be useful to me, no easy task, given my unusual interests. Watson has made note of it often enough (of course I found the list he had made of my "limits," it is a wonder to think he believed he could hide it from me) and it was no doubt a difficult task. I confess I was rather touched; I have given my landlady no reason to be overly fond of me, what with the constant stream of informers who are not the most acceptable company for a middle-class widow. Indeed, with my penchant for chemical experiments and occasional target practice indoors, I had expected to be shown the door after only a few months. It had been nearly a year, and she seemed no less happy to have me living on her first floor than she had when Watson and I first moved in. But to purposely buy me something she believed would _protect_ me from the dangers of my profession was entirely unexpected. Was she actually _fond_ of me? I certainly had not thought to find so accommodating a landlady, but I had, until now, thought of her as nothing more than my landlady. Evidently, that was a mistake on my part. Mrs. Hudson might very well be the best landlady in London, and that could be a great asset to me. What a stroke of fortune that I should be the one to find her!

Mrs. Hudson was still watching me happily, and I found I could not bring myself to tell her how little use the anti-garrote collar actually was. "Why, thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I am sure it will be very useful," I said with a smile.

Mrs. Hudson's face broke into a wide smile. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, you're welcome! You're devilishly hard to buy for, but I wanted to get you something. The rooms haven't felt so full in years!" She went off to the kitchen and appeared to be humming to herself, leaving me in the hallway, wondering what on earth I was supposed to do with the collar. Perhaps I should keep it as an interesting historical crime-fighting piece. It would go very well with the portraits of criminals that hung upon my bedroom walls. I smirked, thinking of how Watson would say that I was slowly turning our rooms into a museum of detection. He could not blame _me_ for this addition, at the very least.

* * *

A/N Anti-garrote collars were an actual Victorian invention, popular in the 1850s and 60s when there was a wave of fear of being strangled on the streets.


	16. Chapter 16

From KnightFury - Christmas cards

* * *

I retrieved the post one morning in early December, pleased that I had reached it before Holmes. I knew not to expect better of him, but it was most annoying to know that my post was read before I got to it (though, as a gentleman, he did leave my private correspondence untouched). Today, I flipped through several bills before reaching a sturdy envelope addressed to me. I opened it to reveal a lovely Christmas card, sent by my old orderly Murray and his wife.

"That was kind of them," I remarked to Holmes, setting the card up on the mantelpiece so that its picture, a scene of a horse and sleigh with several happy children onboard, could be seen. "It is the first Christmas card this year."

Holmes groaned from where he was laying stretched out on the settee. I waited patiently for him to explain himself, used as I was to his unique reactions to seemingly normal occurrences such as the arrival of Christmas cards. "Watson, you have not seen yet what my correspondence becomes at Christmastime," he said.

Holmes's correspondence was already fairly unusual, encompassing everything from the daily newspapers to packages of substances I suspected were illegal, so I merely raised my eyebrows and waited for him to explain himself.

"Watson, you have seen how many people already send me letters of salutation with no case to speak of!"

I had indeed; many people sent him letters asking him to find their lost cat, or some such. He suspected that many of these were invented simply to meet him. There were also many letters simply begging to meet him, declaring themselves devotees of the stories I wrote for the _Strand._ I smirked. "Yes, indeed I do, Holmes," I said.

"Well, at Christmas, every one of these and more deems it necessary to send me Christmas greetings!" Holmes said, looking so irritated at this that I simply had to laugh. "It is not funny, Watson!"

"Come now, Holmes, it can hardly be as bad as all that!" I said.

Holmes sent me a long-suffering look. "Just you wait and see. Before the week is out we shall be veritably drowning in them."

I, naturally, took this to be an example of Holmes exaggerating things, as was his wont, but by the week-end I was surprised to see a large pile of envelopes for Holmes, all of which appeared to be Christmas cards. I opened one and promptly blushed to see the way in which its writer promised herself to my friend on any day of his choosing. The rest were all rife with congratulations on solving one case or another and I carried the pile into the sitting room and set it by my friend's chair.

"Oh, you may open them if you wish, Watson," Holmes said carelessly. "If it is something I need to see, you will surely tell me."

The task took the better part of the afternoon and I was beginning to see what Holmes meant when he had said he received too large a number of Christmas cards. Some of them were quite nice, such as the handwritten one from a six year old boy who declared he wanted to be a detective too when he grew up. Most were simply store-bought postcards.

"You may get rid of those, Watson, if they are not from anyone we know," Holmes said, and I carried the lot of them down to the fire to be burned.

The next day, however, brought us twice as many cards and Holmes took one look at the pile in my arms before taking them from me and saying, "I don't think we need all these, do you, Watson?"

"Wait!" I said, spying a return address I recognized on the top of the pile. "This is from the Yard, Holmes."

"Oh," Holmes said, opening the envelope to see a large card signed by all the members of the force. "Well, if we must go through them I suggest we start." He and I sat at our table all day, opening cards until the sun set. Aside from the card from the police and one from Holmes's former friend and client Mr. Reginald Musgrave, none were from anyone we knew.

"You see, Watson, what a trial it is?" Holmes asked, and I assented that I was beginning to.

The next day brought an even larger pile of cards which Holmes tossed in the trash heap almost as soon as he had received it. "Holmes!" I said, fishing through the pile until I found a large envelope with a large and stately seal. "This is from the royal house itself!"

"Oh," Holmes said, taking the card and reading through it. "No doubt in gratitude for some problem or another I solved for them."

"And this one is from your brother," I said, finding an envelope with the return address of the Diogenes Club on it. "Very plain," I remarked.

"Mycroft does not like the fancier side of life, unless, of course, it is in his dinner," Holmes said. "I suppose we must display that," he continued in a long-suffering way as I resigned myself to another day of searching through seemingly endless Christmas cards.

The next day, our postman refused to attempt to fit all the cards into the slot in our door and simply knocked, shoving them all into my arms when I answered. A few envelopes fell to the floor as I walked, beginning to see why Holmes was so uninterested in the custom of Christmas cards. "Shall I just get rid of these too?" I asked.

"You may as well, they will only get everywhere," Holmes said, picking up one which was merely a piece of scrap paper folded in half. "Look, Watson, the Irregulars have all signed this!" he said.

I smiled in spite of the precarious load in my arms. "They look up to you a great deal, you know." Then I sighed, looking at my load of Christmas cards. "I suppose that means we must look through these too, just to be sure we are not throwing away any from our actual acquaintances."

"I suppose so," Holmes said. We were rewarded by finding a card from at least three former clients as well as Stamford, who had introduced us.

A week later, when Lestrade knocked on our door to wish us the compliments of the season on purpose, we were positively wading through the piles of Christmas cards on the floor and could barely open the door. "My word!" Lestrade said. "I didn't know you knew this many people between you!"

"We don't," I said shortly. "These are all from people who admire Holmes through my stories, or from hearing of him in the newspaper."

Lestrade laughed heartily. "Are they really, Doctor? I had not imagined Holmes would ever be so popular a fellow!"

"Neither had I, Lestrade," Holmes said. "Evidently, we were both mistaken." He gestured around at the sea of envelopes on the floor.

"I must say, I'm surprised Mrs. Hudson has not had a fit over this," Lestrade whispered to me.

"She has not been up here in a week," I said. "Holmes and I keep going out for our meals." Lestrade laughed again, but it was true. Neither of us wished to face our landlady's anger at the mess that had been created in our rooms. "As soon as we look through them we shall be all back to normal," I said.

"Well, in that case, do you need some help, Doctor?" Lestrade asked. "I have nothing to do, and I think it would be interesting to see what kind of Christmas cards Mr. Holmes gets."

I eagerly assented, and I believe Lestrade enjoyed himself, largely because he got enough ammunition from them to ensure that Holmes would not tease him again for the next six months.


	17. Chapter 17

From mrspencil - inspector Hopkins has a festive adventure

* * *

"You're not sending a rookie inspector to Mr. Holmes, are you?" Lestrade asked Bradstreet in some alarm. For his part, Stanley Hopkins, the inspector in question, looked up in annoyance. He'd considered it an honor to be assigned of the more difficult cases right away, even if Bradstreet had said dismissively, "He can't do too much damage with Mr. Holmes there. He might learn a thing or two."

"I stand by my decision, Lestrade. Or do you think Hopkins can't handle it?" He eyed Lestrade suspiciously, and the shorter detective flushed red.

"I didn't say that. I only meant…you know what Holmes is like! There's nobody that can touch him anymore, since he all but returned from the dead," Lestrade said.

Hopkins looked up, suddenly nervous. Returned from the dead? Were they talking about some sort of demon from beyond? Bradstreet smiled reassuringly. "Never heard of Holmes, have you, lad? Never read detective stories in the _Strand._ "

Now it was Hopkins's turn to blush. "I…wasn't allowed, sir. My parents thought stories like that were proper rubbish."

"Hmm, well, as advice, don't say that to Mr. Holmes, or especially to the Doctor," Lestrade said.

"Understood," Hopkins said, before heading off to the address they had given him. 221b Baker Street. As he walked, the snow began falling lightly and he passed more than one group of carolers. The case file was thick in his hands, and he wondered about this Sherlock Holmes they were sending him to. It was unusual for the official police to consult an amateur, in the previous precinct he'd been at, they would have been court-martialed for it. Things were very different here, all the inspectors seemed to swear by the man.

Hopkins knocked on the door, which was swiftly opened by a short, heavyset woman who looked him over and smiled. "You'll be here for Mr. Holmes, I expect."

"Yes, I'm Inspector Hopkins," he said, fumbling with his badge.

"Oh, you don't need to bother with that. After all these years I can tell a policeman by his stance from ten paces away," the woman said. "I'm Mrs. Hudson, by the way, his landlady."

"Very pleased to meet you," Hopkins said, following her up the stairs. Once he'd been announced, he was shown into a small, but tastefully furnished sitting room, and he took in the two men sitting there. "Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he asked one of them, a short, thickset man with a mustache.

"Goodness, no," the fellow said, chuckling good-naturedly. "I am Doctor Watson. This is Sherlock Holmes." He indicated his companion, who stood up to greet Hopkins. The amateur detective was tall, and so thin he seemed taller, with harsh, hawklike features. His eyes looked Hopkins over in a way that made him distinctly uncomfortable. After a few seconds, Holmes waved Hopkins to a seat.

"Welcome. I can see you are an inspector, by the badge that sticks out of your pocket, but it is not so worn that you have had it for a long time. A new promotion."

"Yes, sir," Hopkins said, amazed. "How did you-"

"You have also been transferred from another precinct," Holmes went on. "Your shoes are old but highly polished; you were expected to keep them looking nice but found it an expense, therefore did not buy new ones. You previously worked in a precinct in a wealthier area of London, did you not?"

"Yes, sir, Kensington," Hopkins said, nothing short of astonished. He looked over at Doctor Watson, who seemed distinctly amused by the whole thing. Holmes smiled.

"A little demonstration of my turn for observation and deduction that allows me to work as the only consulting detective in the world," he said haughtily. "Do you have a case for me?"

"Why, yes," Hopkins said, pulling out his file. "It's an odd one, sir. I can't make heads nor tails of it, and if we don't figure it out by Christmas we never will."

"By Christmas? How odd," Holmes said, reading through the file. "Oh, I see. These carolers have been found strangled by garland."

"And left in front of any Christmas tree the villain can find," Hopkins finished.

"What a morbid thing to happen in the Christmas season!" Doctor Watson said.

"They'd just found another one, sir, before I came here. That's why I was sent to get you. They said they left the crime scene untouched." Hopkins was not sure of why; surely it was barbaric to leave those poor carolers there, but Bradstreet had been insistent; nothing was to be moved until Holmes arrived

"There is not a moment to lose, then," Holmes said, getting up and putting on his coat and hat. His friend followed suit, and Hopkins watched in amazement. He could not bring a civilian doctor with him, could he? But evidently that was what he meant to do, and Hopkins hurriedly followed them out the door, lest he be left behind.

They arrived at the crime scene and Mr. Holmes began acting very strangely. He ignored the grisly scene of the bodies lying by the Christmas trees, instead getting down on all fours and examining the ground very closely. "Er, what is he doing?" Hopkins asked Doctor Watson in a whisper, somehow realizing he should be quiet.

"Sometimes," Doctor Watson said in an equally low tone. "The criminal leaves small traces, which allow Holmes to figure out who he is, using those powers which he showed you before."

"Oh." Suddenly, Hopkins realized why the police force used Mr. Holmes as a consultant. That ability to, what had he called it? Observe and deduce could prove vital in determining who had committed a crime.

Holmes suddenly stood up quickly. "Hopkins, these bodies. You are sure they have not been moved?"

"Positive," Hopkins said. "Everyone was given strict instructions."

Holmes smiled in a way which made Hopkins very glad he was on their side. "Then what do you observe about these two victims?"

Hopkins bent down close, consciously trying to live up to what he already knew about Mr. Holmes's methods. "They were strangled," he said. The garland was still wound around the two men's throats. He continued to look, and then something caught his eye. "One is laid out very neatly, but the other is not. Almost as if he was dumped in a hurry."

"Precisely," Holmes said. "The other crime scenes were all laid out in a tableau. This one is half-finished."

"Which means the murderer may still be here, waiting to finish!" Hopkins finished excitedly. "He wouldn't have had a chance before, with all the sergeants around."

Holmes nodded, looking around, then suddenly cried out, "There he is!" he took off like a shot after a small man, whose running footsteps receded into the distance. Hopkins started to run after him, with Doctor Watson behind him. He was suddenly worried; what if Holmes caught him first? The amateur detective was exceedingly thin, and if a civilian was hurt on a police mission, that would be undoubtedly be a bad thing. Especially since the civilian in question was so famous a figure.

No sooner had he thought this than he heard sounds of a scuffle ahead of him and tried to quicken his pace. By the time he reached Holmes, however, the murderer had already been knocked out cold to the ground. Hopkins stared in some astonishment. "What?" he asked blankly.

Doctor Watson smiled, coming up behind him. "Holmes is an expert in various forms of fighting. Boxing, singlestick, baritsu."

"And fencing, Watson," Holmes added. "Not that it was very much use here." They all looked down on the prone figure of the murderer and Hopkins exhaled.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I thought we'd never figure it out, but you've done it in less time than it takes a cook a Christmas turkey!" he said. "I'll be glad to work with you again, sir!"

Mr. Holmes smiled. "As will I, Hopkins. You showed some promise today, more than many of the other inspectors. Come, Watson, our work here is done."

"He gave you quite a compliment, you know," Doctor Watson said as his friend began to walk away. He pulled a small book out of his pocket. "A sort of welcome gift. A Christmas gift too, I suppose. You might learn something."

Hopkines turned it over to read, "The Collected Stories of Sherlock Holmes." He looked up. "Thank you, Doctor! I shall read it cover to cover, I promise."

Doctor Watson smiled. "Only don't tell him you did. He detests them, you know."

Hopkins smiled. "I promise, sir."


	18. Chapter 18

From Garonne - Penny dreadfuls

* * *

"Johnny! Come down now, it's time for our readings!"

Young John Watson sighed. He couldn't understand why his father insisted on reading aloud to them each night after dinner. He'd given up hoping a long time ago that the stories would be anything interesting; the books in his father's library were all so long and tedious. Stories of Bible times, or righteous people going off on dull adventures, where they proved how very saintly they were.

John didn't understand how books could make adventures so _dull._ His mother's stories, told aloud from memory, were full of exciting adventures with fairies and pirates and knights who fought great dangers. She hadn't told them very often lately; his father thought they were a bad influence on his boys.

John took his seat next to the fire and shared an exasperated look with Henry. His brother was twelve now, and didn't bother to hide his exasperation with the nightly readings. Their father took no notice, and instead opened his book to the right page. John didn't pay attention, instead drifting off into imagining how he and his friends would defeat the boys on the next street in their makeshift rugby match that Saturday. The one good thing was that his father never noticed how little John and Henry paid attention, becoming so engrossed in his reading that he barely looked up. John caught his mother's eye and realized she wasn't paying attention either, instead absorbed in her tatting. He smiled; she didn't like this either. But at least she had something to do. He sank back into the pillows and stared at their wall clock, willing it to move faster.

"Johnny! Will you go get the paper for your father? Here's a couple of pennies." John took the pennies, proud that he was being allowed to go buy the paper alone. The streets of Edinburgh were no place for a child, but he was eight now. Almost nine, and he was much more responsible than Henry. All the teachers at school said so.

John reached the little shop on the corner that sold newspapers and found the newspaper his father always read. He looked at the price and realized his mother had given him too much money. He grinned; she'd probably done that on purpose, and now he'd be able to buy some candy too. He looked over the candy when a new display caught his eye. A row of books that didn't look anything like the ones his father had. John shook his head, turning back to the candy before his curiosity got the better of him and he picked one up. The picture on the cover was of a tall man in a cape, carrying a whip. He looked menacing, and there were two people in a carriage in the background who looked terrified of him. John flipped to the first page and found that the man with the cape on the front was a highwayman, a robber. And he was the hero of the story!

John grinned and handed over his pennies. He hid his new treasure under his coat so his mother wouldn't see it and ran straight upstairs. The book was written so that it was easier to understand than his father's books and John read about half of it that afternoon, caught up in the story of the highwayman's adventures. _This_ was a story. The highwayman had a faithful horse, and he didn't care at all about being saintly. In fact, some passages made John blush, when the highwayman was with the girl he loved, although he didn't understand much of that. He finished the book the next morning, amazed that there was a book that told the same sort of stories his mother did; exciting, dangerous and about people who weren't saintly do-gooders. John instantly realized that his father would never let him read any more, but he started thinking of ways he could find more pennies so he could buy more.

A week later, John was walking along the street to school with his friend Peter from two buildings down when he spied a glint of light in the street. When he got closer, he realized it was a penny and his heart leapt. "Come on!" he said, running to the shop on the corner.

"We're going to be late, Johnny!" Peter said.

"I just want to get something," John said, looking over the rack and trying to pick between two books. One was about a vampire, and the other was about a detective. He wasn't sure which one to pick, and Peter finally grabbed his arm.

"Johnny, come on! If I'm late again I'll get a ruler across my wrists."

"Alright, I'm coming," John said, hastily putting back the vampire book and taking the one about the detective. He paid and rushed out the door, slipping the book in his pocket. He couldn't wait to read it.

He lasted through the morning, the book almost burning a hole in his pocket; that was how badly he wanted to read it. He lasted until history, when he finally pulled the book out and started to read it behind his textbook. He was soon caught up in the story, about a horrible series of murders, and the detective who tried to solve them in spite of how the rest of the police didn't think they were connected. He was so caught up he didn't realize the teacher was standing over him until he heard giggles from the class.

"Watson, what is that?" the teacher asked.

John turned red. "A book, ma'am." He answered.

His teacher grabbed the book. "A penny dreadful? This hardly deserves the word 'book.' Nothing but lurid tales of immoral, terrible people."

John glared at the floor. He didn't know what lurid meant but if it was different from the boring books his father read, he didn't think it was a bad thing. And maybe the highwayman hadn't been a good person, but the detective in this story was trying to stop a murderer. He wasn't a terrible person. "I'll be keeping this," the teacher said.

"I paid a penny for that!" John blurted out. "And I haven't finished it yet," he added. The class laughed, and the teacher sighed.

"You can have it back at the end of the day," she said and John sat back down sullenly.

At the end of the day, John went up to the desk and, as promised, his teacher gave him his book back. But she handed him another book too, and he looked up in surprise. "Penny dreadfuls are not the only books that tell exciting stories," she said , nodding toward the book. He read the title aloud.

" _Robinson Crusoe_." Curious despite himself, John looked up. "What's it about?"

"It's about a man who gets marooned on a desert island all on his own, and how he survives," the teacher answered, and John started to smile, interested. "When you finish that," she continued. "I have several more. Stories of frontiermen in America and dangers at sea."

John brightened. He didn't know there were real books written about exciting things like that. "Thank you, miss!" he said, running off with his new treasure.

"You're welcome, Watson," she said. "Tell me what you think, when you've finished."

"I will," John promised. He was excited to read the teacher's book, and to finish the detective story. The promise of more good books spurred him on; he'd never known this was what it could be like. He thought liking to read meant liking his father's boring books, and was glad it wasn't. There were probably a lot of good books, like his teacher said.

Although the next time he went to the shop with his mother's pennies, he bought the vampire book too. Just because his teacher had some good books didn't mean he had to _only_ read those. He suddenly wanted to read _everything_ , and the more he could find, the better.


	19. Chapter 19

From Madam'zelleGiry - Mrs. Hudson strikes back.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was, after so many years as landlady to the only consulting detective in the world and the worst tenant in London, used to all sorts of unusual occurrences. She no longer looked askance when knives appeared in her soup tureen or ingredients occasionally disappeared from her kitchen to reappear later in some experiment or another. The one thing she insisted upon was that the rooms be kept _clean_ , which they were. Mr. Holmes might be many things but he was a gentleman and while his organizational methods left much to be desired, he did not want to live in a slovenly mess.

So Mrs. Hudson was more surprised than anyone one morning when, in the middle of sweeping her kitchen, she came across a set of tiny footprints. No, two sets of tiny footprints in the flour she was so diligently sweeping. "Oh, no," Mrs. Hudson said to herself forcefully. She had dealt with quite a lot over the years, but the one thing she would not tolerate was mice. She angrily swept away the evidence, contemplating how best to get rid of the little creatures when she spied two little mice running across her kitchen floor as bold as anything. How long had this been going on?

"Get out!" Mrs. Hudson cried, raising her broom high, about to knock them away with force. The two little mice froze and then scampered away. She nodded, satisfied, but knew that would not be the end of it. No doubt the little creatures had been making free with her kitchen for months. That ended now, as far as she was concerned. She didn't think Mr. Holmes or Dr. Watson would appreciate sharing their rooms with a family of rodents.

The next day, she took herself straight to Mrs. Turner next door and borrowed her cat. The tabby was nearly as big as that mangy dog, Toby, Mr. Holmes set such store by and Mrs. Hudson let it go in her front hallway, sure that the mice wouldn't escape this time.

She didn't have long to wait. No sooner had the cat reached the kitchen than the two little mice sped out from underneath the door. She smiled and clutched her broomstick tighter, ready to sweep them straight out the door when one of them stopped and held its little paws up. Mrs. Hudson squinted at it; it almost looked…human, doing that. "Stop!" a small, squeaky voice cried.

Mrs. Hudson froze, unsure where the voice had come from, until the obvious presented itself. The mouse at her feet, still holding up its paws as if to ward off blows. Soon a second mouse joined them, seemingly panting from the effort. "Thank you," the first mouse said imperiously. Mrs. Hudson stared at it. How could a mouse be talking? And was that a… _suit_ it was wearing?

"Basil, the cat!" the second mouse, considerably shorter and squatter than the first, said in a worried tone.

"Not to worry, Dawson," the first one said. "That tripwire I set up should do nicely."

Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened, and sure enough, the angry yowls from the kitchen told her that the cat had indeed been caught by the tripwire and she eyed the mice suspiciously. When had they become so intelligent?

They were interrupted by a louder crash, a yowl and a grunt of pain, and soon Mr. Holmes came stumbling through the door, looking annoyed.

"I must say, Mrs. Hudson, if you have a fear of burglars, do tell me about it instead of putting up tripwires!" he exclaimed.

"I should think you'd be ashamed of being caught by your own landlady, in your own house, Mr. Holmes," the taller mouse said smugly.

Mr. Holmes threw the mouse an irritated glance. "I hardly expect to have to treat my own lodgings the same way I would an unsecured crime scene!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson began, before she realized what was going on. Mr. Holmes, the pinnacle of all rationality and reasoning, was _talking_ to a mouse. _Familiarly_. "Mr. Holmes, will you please tell me _what_ is going on?"

"Oh," Mr. Holmes said. "I see you have met our tenants."

"Our _tenants_?" Mrs. Hudson cried, seeing Mr. Holmes begin to step back.

"Yes, my good lady," the taller mouse said. "I am Basil of Baker Street, and this is my good friend Dr. Dawson."

"Pleased to meet you," the shorter mouse said.

"You _knew_ they were here?" Mrs. Hudson said, and Mr. Holmes held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Only for a little while. Basil is a consulting detective, as I am, and Dr. Dawson is his assistant."

Mrs. Hudson stared at him, afraid for a moment that he was finally losing his reasoning before she realized that she could hear the mice too. _I always knew living here would drive me mad someday_ , she thought. Out loud, she asked, "And who comes for their services? Other mice?"

"Why, yes, of course," Basil said. "The occasional lizard, or bat. I have quite a wide clientele."

"He is nearly as well known among our kind as Mr. Holmes is!" Dr. Dawson said proudly.

"Do forgive me for not telling you. I did not think it would go over very well," Mr. Holmes said. "You will find they are quiet and will not be any bother."

Mrs. Hudson glared at him. "That is very much like what you said about yourself and Dr. Watson when you moved in."

Mr. Holmes looked rather ashamed, but Basil began to laugh. "I assure you, dear lady, in my case it is true. You will not even know I am here."

Mrs. Hudson turned her gaze on him and finally sighed. "Oh, alright. I cannot go up against two consulting detectives."

"Good," Mr. Holmes said happily. "Watson is quite fond of the little fellows. He would be upset if they were forced to leave." He went back up the stairs and Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

"As if he would not be equally upset." She turned to the two little mice.

"You are not angry with us, are you?" Dawson asked. "We did not take much from your kitchen, only a few little candies here and there. Basil has rather a weakness for them."

"No, I don't mind," Mrs. Hudson said with a sigh. "I suppose I should be prepared for anything, shouldn't I?"

"An excellent philosophy," Basil agreed. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I must say, it would make our lives much more difficult if you had taken a dislike to us."

Mrs. Hudson laughed; he really was so similar to Mr. Holmes. "I don't suppose two consulting detectives can be any worse than one."

The two little mice smiled and disappeared into a small hole in the wall, and Mrs. Hudson shook her head, staring up the stairs at Mr. Holmes's rooms. Honestly, the things that man got up to. He could expect cabbage soup for the remainder of the week, she decided, a fitting way to strike back.

An effect that was, she realized, rather ruined when he caught her leaving small pieces of Basil's favorite candy out on the counter. Mr. Holmes looked so smug about it, but as he knew, she had a weakness for consulting detectives, and Basil was at least _quiet_ about it. The day Mr. Holmes stopped firing his gun off indoors, she would leave him candy too.

* * *

A/N Of course Basil was going to show up eventually :)


	20. Chapter 20

From Hades Lord of the Dead - Religion

Set around 1849 - you'll see why.

* * *

James Moriarty glared at the young men who had bumped into him on their way to class. He barely needed to attend the classes anyway; he had discovered quickly enough that there was nothing the professors could teach him. He had learned the basics of calculus by the age of twelve, and he went to class lately merely so he would not be in trouble. He didn't want to lose his scholarship, after all. He glared, thinking of his father's poor position in Cornwall. He didn't want to be stuck there for the rest of his life – he could _feel_ how much potential he had.

He sighed in irritation and rolled his eyes at his classmates, frantically comparing answers to the work they had been set. He pulled out his own neat work and leaned back in his seat, bored. Moriarty was never asked to give answers in class anymore – not since the first days of class when he had easily proved himself more knowledgeable than the professor. Really, it was most entertaining, watching everyone else try to determine the answers, fumbling around as if they couldn't use what little intelligence they'd been given. This only lasted until he realized that he would someday need to develop some sort of _relationship_ with people like these, to work in his field and survive, and his hands clenched involuntarily. They should be begging him for work, not the other way around. Moriarty refused to be meek and mild like his father, never getting ahead, never taking what should be his.

"And so, the mathematics prove that the forces of gravity exerted by the planets must be different depending on the planet's size," the professor said as Moriarty's mind drifted back to class, "a unique system surely designed by the Creator to ensure that life can only exist on His chosen world."

Moriarty blinked, unsure of what he had heard. This fool of a professor could not be defending the idea of an almighty c _reator_? When the real reason, the mathematics, was right there? He raised his hand slowly, noting the professor's look of intimidation as he nodded. "Yes, Moriarty?"

"Where do the mathematics show the presence of a Creator?" Moriarty asked, slowly and deliberately.

The professor looked back at the chalkboard and then back at the class, seemingly annoyed at himself. "Why, right there? How else could a planet exist with such perfect gravity to sustain life unless designed as such for us?" He looked at Moriarty with a faint smile, as if he had finally caught his least favorite student in a mistake.

"If Newton's law is that gravity is a central force, should it not make sense that there are laws binding it?" Moriarty argued. "Surely, by that rule, Jupiter would exert a far greater force of gravity than Earth."

"Yes, precisely," the professor answered. "Exactly what I am saying, that Earth was designed and chosen as the perfect home for God's creatures."

Moriarty stood up, growing annoyed. "But that is not scientific proof! Is it not equally, or even more, likely that life began here _because_ of the ideal level of gravity, rather than that it was designed this way?"

"Are you saying it is mere chance that life emerged, sentient, self-aware life, entirely by accident on _exactly_ the right planet?" the professor asked. "Doesn't that seem a little too random?" The class tittered with laughter and Moriarty blushed angrily.

"Doesn't it seem a little ridiculous that an omnipotent being in the sky created the entire universe and picked _this_ planet alone for life, giving it the perfect conditions?" he countered. "Why, these same conditions may exist in countless places across the universe, if every star in the sky has a planetary system like ours!"

"That would mean that life is not unique," the professor said. "Not designed in God's very image."

"And?" Moriarty asked. "Does that make less sense than an all-powerful being randomly choosing our planet to create life? Life which is apparently in his own image, despite the fact that this being is, by definition, everywhere and should not need a form or image at all?"

The class gasped and the professor began to move up the aisles. "Moriarty," he said gravely, "it seems to me you are denying the existence of God."

"Can God be measured?" Moriarty said. "Experimented on? Is there any mathematical proof showing God exists?"

"Of course not!" the professor said angrily. "That is the very _nature_ of God. He must be taken on faith."

Moriarty stared the professor down. "Yet the forces of gravity can be measured. The circumference of the Earth can be measured. The natural laws of the universe can be tested with experiments until they are replicated and known to be true. The stars, mapped and plotted. The very fabric of the cosmos can be caught and written down in mathematics. Is that not measuring God?"

"I-" the professor said, suddenly unsure.

Moriarty stood up. "Would you say that measurement proves the existence of something, when working in the sciences? Would you agree that that which cannot be measured cannot be proven to exist, and must be replaced by that which can be seen, measured, proven to be real?"

"In any other situation-" the professor blustered.

"In which case," Moriarty went on, his voice growing louder, "does that not mean that God, who by your own admission cannot be measured or proven to exist, must be laid aside in favor of those laws which can, in fact, be proven to govern the universe?" The class was silent and he went on. "Two contradicting theories cannot exist at once. Particularly when one of those cannot be proven to exist at all." A few anxious giggles rang through the lecture hall, quickly silenced, and Moriarty allowed himself a smile. He knew he had won.

The professor stared at him and finally said, "So in your opinion, God and religion, and everything that has come from it…useless? You would throw aside man's search for meaning?"

Moriarty watched him curiously for a few moments. " _Science_ is the search for meaning, Professor. I prefer facts to this cushion of ignorance that humans call religion."

The professor began spluttering and sent him out of the lecture hall, something Moriarty was only too glad to do. He didn't know what he had expected from a university which insisted, on pain of expulsion, that all students attend chapel once a week. But a _scientist_. Like he himself was.

 _No, not like me_ , Moriarty said to himself, both a reassurance and a promise. He was more than them, and he would become greater still. He needed nothing from these lesser fools, who refused to see what was in front of them. He would do it himself, with nothing but his own wits to guide him.

Someday, the name of James Moriarty would be known throughout the Empire. He was sure of it.

* * *

A/N These are not my opinions about religion, only what I think Moriarty would believe. Please keep religious opinions out of the reviews, thank you!


	21. Chapter 21

From W. Y. Traveller - Mrs. Hudson wants the Christmas tree. Holmes doesn't. How is this resolved?

* * *

It had been almost two years since Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson had moved into the first floor rooms at 221b Baker Street. Last Christmas, Mrs. Hudson had not made any remarks about how the two young men seemed to refuse to celebrate Christmas – they were quite alone in London, apart from each other, and struggling financially. Besides, she was only their landlady and it wasn't her place.

Now, though, things were different. Mr. Holmes, for all his difficulties, was becoming somewhat known for his abilities as a detective, and Dr. Watson had found a good position at a hospital. She looked after them more than she had last year; they weren't much younger than Mrs. Hudson, but they seemed like they were, at times. She sometimes wondered how Mr. Holmes would find anything in his rooms or eat anything resembling a healthy meal if she wasn't there. So as December came closer, she wondered why there seemed to be few preparations for Christmas.

"Doctor, I'm going to pick up some garland," Mrs. Hudson said as she left one morning. "Would you like me to pick up some extra for you and Mr. Holmes?" It would make their sitting room considerably cheerier, she thought.

Dr. Watson looked wistful for a moment, then said, "No, I don't think Holmes is terribly fond of the holiday. The stocking I hung up by the fire disappeared after a few hours and I can't find it anywhere."

Mrs. Hudson scoffed. She had become very fond of Mr. Holmes, but that did not mean she wasn't aware of his faults. He could be entirely oblivious to other people's feelings, claiming as he did that the only thing that mattered was reasoning and rationality. But anyone could see that Dr. Watson was looking forward to celebrating Christmas. Surely Mr. Holmes, as the only friend he had managed to make, could let him enjoy the day! "That is ridiculous, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson said.

"Well, the funny thing is, I had only hung them there to dry after a particularly damp day," Dr. Watson said, beginning to laugh. "He must have an intense dislike for the season, to take it so badly."

"Well, I would very much like a Christmas tree," Mrs. Hudson said. "It's been two years since Tom passed on…" she trailed off sadly, thinking of her first Christmas in this house with her husband. Who would have thought that only ten years after their marriage she would need to take in lodgers to stay? Then she shook her head; it was no use dwelling on the past and she was very glad to have Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. "It's about time I celebrated again."

"I heartily agree," Dr. Watson said. "But I think you might find it difficult to convince him of that."

"We'll see, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson promised, heading up the stairs. "Mr. Holmes!"

"What is it?" the detective answered, opening the door.

"Mr. Holmes, the Doctor and I were just talking, and we agree that it is high time the Christmas tree was set up," Mrs. Hudson said. "It is only two weeks until Christmas, after all."

Mr. Holmes's face darkened. "Mrs. Hudson, Christmas is merely a day like any other. If I cannot work, due to everyone else celebrating, I wish to spend it in quiet study rather than stuffing myself full of food and opening presents like a child." He paused. "Besides, Christmas trees are a dreadful fire hazard, what with the candles hanging from the branches."

Mrs. Hudson thought it a bit rich for Mr. Holmes of the famously toxic tobacco smoke and noxious chemical experiments to call anything else a fire hazard, but stood her ground. "I have not celebrated Christmas in three years, Mr. Holmes. A tree would undoubtedly make us all enjoy the season more."

Mr. Holmes sighed. "Mrs. Hudson, it would be a chore to get the tree up the stairs, and I haven't time for that. Now, please, I have a great deal of work to do."

Mrs. Hudson had to resist the urge to make a face at the door as he closed it. He could be so obtuse at times, and it looked as if that meant she and the Doctor would not have their Christmas tree this year. She sighed. She had known having Mr. Holmes as a lodger would be difficult, requiring some compromises on her part, and she knew him well enough now to know that she wouldn't trade him for anything. But he really could use some lessons on social tact, on occasion.

Two days later, Mrs. Hudson was trying to keep up as much Christmas spirit as she could, despite the complete lack of any outward trappings of the holiday. She was in the midst of baking Christmas biscuits, some for the Yard, some for her neighbors and some for the families of the Irregulars when she heard the door open and the patter of feet across her hallway. She smiled. Mr. Holmes's little band of street urchins refused to understand why they could not simply pick the lock on the front door, but she had become fond of them all over the past couple of years, despite her initial horror at finding her rooms hosting up to a dozen dirty little boys at once.

Mrs. Hudson stuck her head out of the kitchen door. "Wait, I have biscuits for you all to take home!"

A couple of the younger boys looked eagerly at each other, then glanced up at Wiggins, who nodded. They all trooped into the kitchen and Mrs. Hudson handed them each a small bag of biscuits. "Thanks, Mrs. H.!" little Ronald Twitt, all of seven years old with hair sticking out all over his head, said with a grin.

"They're real good!" one of the little boys said.

"How come you don't have any Christmas decorations?" Ronald asked. "I thought all the toffs had garland everywhere and a real Christmas tree!"

"Mr. Holmes doesn't want any," Mrs. Hudson answered. "He's much too busy for Christmas."

Ronald grimaced in disappointment. "Aw, I was hoping to help decorate the tree! It always looked fun."

"Ronald!" Wiggins said sharply, then glanced up at Mrs. Hudson. Spontaneously, she found herself sympathetic. Wiggins was all of nine or ten years old, and here he was, leading these boys on what was really official business. "Sorry," Wiggins said. "Christmas trees aren't so common on our side of town."

Mrs. Hudson stopped in the middle of becoming indignant on their behalf, an idea taking shape. "Boys, listen to me. I think you can convince Mr. Holmes to get a Christmas tree, how about that?"

"Yes!" Ronald said excited, and Mrs. Hudson found her skirts surrounded by ten little boys, all listening to her plan.

Mr. Holmes always came down the stairs at precisely three o'clock, looking for the newspaper (he was never willing to wait until she delivered it to him), but today Mrs. Hudson was grateful for his impatience. No sooner had he appeared in the hallway than Ronald, Wiggins and the rest of the Baker Street Irregulars ran out of the kitchen. "Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes!" Ronald cried. "Don't you want a Christmas tree? We could help you decorate it?"

"I-" Mr. Holmes began, but he was interrupted by a little boy whose gap-toothed smile even he couldn't resist.

"We were hopin' to decorate it for you!"

"We don't get much chance for that otherwise," Wiggins said, giving Mr. Holmes a small smile.

Mr. Holmes looked from one Irregular to another, then back at Mrs. Hudson with an expression that said he knew exactly what she had done. "Please, Mr. Holmes!" one of the other little boys wheedled.

Mr. Holmes sighed, and Mrs. Hudson smiled. She knew she had him. "Oh, all right," Mr. Holmes said. "We will go pick out a tree tonight and you all can come back tomorrow and decorate it for me, how does that sound?"

A cheer went up from the Irregulars, who then grabbed their biscuits and left as quickly as they'd come. Mr. Holmes raised an eyebrow at Mrs. Hudson. "I do think you would be quite the equal of any criminal leader in this city," he said.

Mrs. Hudson merely smiled back. "I suppose that's why I enjoy having you as my lodger."


	22. Chapter 22

From Hades Lord of the Dead - Of Holmes and Watson, one of them can't hold their alcohol... write a story where we find out which!

* * *

In the first years I shared rooms with my friend Sherlock Holmes, we socialized little outside of our small sitting room. His profession meant he kept odd hours, often disappearing in the small hours of the morning while others slept. On occasion, he was gone for days at a time, staying, as I was to find out later, in one of the many secret places he kept all over the city. When he was not on a case, his habits were reclusive and solitary. I confess I was a little in awe of him at times; he wasn't the sort of man who invited casual invitations to restaurants or the theater and such. As for myself, my health was in poor condition after returning home from Afghanistan, and I usually preferred to remain comfortably indoors as well.

However, one day, six or so months after I had taken rooms with Holmes, he returned slightly before Mrs. Hudson was due to lay out dinner, looking rather perturbed. "Holmes?" I asked in some concern, putting aside my newspaper. "Is everything alright?"

"What? Oh, yes, yes, of course it is, Watson," my fellow-lodger answered distractedly. He began pacing around in front of the fireplace, seemingly unsure of himself. I had not yet seen him in such a state; he was so self-contained as to be intimidating. There was, I believed, only one reason for why he should be so agitated.

"Is it a case?" I asked. Since solving the Jefferson Hope case several months prior, Holmes had had no further cases of note, only such small problems as could be solved from his armchair. I regret that he had not needed my help on any more, as I had found the entire situation fascinating.

Holmes stopped his pacing and looked at me. "I – well, as a matter of fact, it is," he said. "You see, Watson, I am positive that this sea captain is really a smuggler of rare antiquities stolen from our colonies and sold on the black market, a figure of some renown in the underworld, and I have reason to believe that he will be meeting his supplier in a pub tonight. To catch both at once would be a coup the likes of which would halt the trade in illicit antiquities!"

I sat up straighter; it did sound terribly exciting, and I dared to hope that I might be asked to accompany him. He went on, "The problem, Watson, is that I am unused to frequenting pubs and a man alone would likely attract the wrong sort of attention and ruin my chances of delivering the villains to the police."

I began to smile; the obvious solution presenting itself. "Well, then, Holmes, it seems you require an assistant again."

Holmes stared at me in what I believe was nothing short of shock. "No, Watson," he said. "I cannot ask you to accompany me. It is a low establishment, full of thieves, smugglers and worse. It is the last place a former army surgeon would go."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "Holmes, did you think all soldiers are paragons of virtue? I am well acquainted with 'low establishments,' as you call them. If you need an assistant, I am certainly your man!"

Holmes appeared at a loss, and finally said, "All right, Watson. But take your revolver, and at the first sign of trouble, we will leave. Do you understand?"

I affirmed that I did, and we set off toward the docks, dressed in shabby clothes to appear as common sailors. The moment we walked inside I realized that Holmes had indeed been correct; this pub, if it could be called such, would have been considered quite seedy even in Bombay. I hunched my shoulders in to appear inconspicuous, and Holmes led me to the bar, where we ordered glasses of cheap ale. I struggled not to grimace as I drank; it had a sour taste and rather more alcohol than I was accustomed to, although this was no doubt the point.

"There, Watson," Holmes said, pointing at two men who were huddled in a corner over a map. "Those are our men."

I did not know much about detective work, but it seemed to me that pointing directly at the men one was following was rather obvious, and I looked at Holmes's glass. It was empty, and my friend motioned to the bartender for a second pint. "Holmes?" I said. "That is rather strong ale, are you sure you want another one?" I was used to my friend's vices by this point; and I had not thought I needed to be concerned for his intake of alcohol. Surely a man who regularly took a seven percent solution of cocaine could not become drunk on one pint of ale!

Holmes did not answer, merely drinking deeply from his second glass of ale, and then getting up unsteadily. I hastily stood up after him; it appeared as if he would need someone to ensure that he did not fall. "I don't know why I am waiting for the police, Watson," he said, enunciating each word more clearly, no doubt to counteract the effect of the ale. "Why, I can take those two men on my own!"

I looked dubiously at our smugglers. They were both heavily muscled and nearly as tall as Holmes himself. I had seen my friend demonstrate his considerable strength by now, but I did not think he was in a fit state to fight both. "Holmes, come with me. We can get evidence on them another time."

"No!" Holmes cried, so loudly that the other patrons of the pub looked up. "Those smugglers are _ours_ , Watson!"

The two men stood up and came toward us menacingly. "Holmes, let's _go_ ," I whispered urgently, taking him by the arm to steady him and steering him out the door. We found our way stopped by the two smugglers and I glared up at them. "Please move out of our way," I said.

The taller of the two watched me coldly. "Was your friend insinuating that we were smugglers?" he asked.

"No," I said. "My friend, as you can see, is quite drunk." As if to strengthen the point, Holmes pointed to a spot on my shirt and began laughing uproariously.

"Watson, look, it looks like a rabbit!"

I ignored him, hoisted his weight further up and looked up at the men. "I assure you, he meant no insult. The drink makes him see conspirators everywhere. Please, allow me to buy you a drink."

The two smugglers looked at each other in silence, then nodded. I handed the bartender what was left of my coins and physically dragged Holmes out of the pub, where he promptly pushed me aside and was sick in the Thames.

I believe we scared Mrs. Hudson half to death when we returned to our rooms that night; used as she was to Holmes's dangerous line of work, she must have thought he had been shot. His giggles soon proved otherwise, and I deposited him on his bed and went up to my own room. When I had agreed to assist on the occasional investigation, I had not thought it would require me to act as guard to a grown man who could not hold his liquor.

Holmes slept until noon the next day, emerging with a hand held to his head and blinking in the sunlight. "Watson?" he asked. "I believe I may have made a fool of myself last night. Forgive me, I am…unaccustomed to drinking so much."

"No, cocaine is much more to your liking, is it not?" I said, somewhat peeved. He let the insult pass and sat down in his armchair with a groan.

"IfI remember," he said. "I owe you a debt for getting us both out of there before those smugglers took out their anger on us. Thank you, Watson."

I softened; rarely had I seen him so chagrined. "It's quite alright, Holmes. Everyone has overindulged at least once."

Holmes seemed to ignore me. "I must be better than that. I lost the evidence that would have convicted those two!" He held his hands to his head and groaned again.

"Here," I said, mixing up a drink. "It'll help. I learned it in the Army. Only do not ask me what is in it."

Holmes took one sip and made a most extraordinary face. "That is the _worst_ taste I have ever experienced," he said, but I smiled. Already his eyes were brighter and he seemed more alert.

"You're welcome, Holmes," I said, laughing as I sat back with my newspaper. Holmes took the remains of my concoction and went back to bed, muttering about the evils of alcohol. I smirked; I could tolerate much but if he began promoting temperance I would certainly have to have a word with him.


	23. Chapter 23

From W. Y. Traveller - "There does not exist a man who can deliver a present to every child." Holmes upsets his Irregulars regarding the existence of Santa Clause and is asked to make amends.

* * *

"And then Father Christmas is going to bring me a whittling knife of my own!" little Sam was telling Watson eagerly through the biscuit Mrs. Hudson had given him. Poor Watson, he was showing exemplary patience with two of my youngest Irregulars. Wiggins was watching, obviously trying to hold himself back from saying the truth, although why he should was certainly beyond my comprehension.

"Is he really?" Watson asked, smiling at me. On his other side, Ronald Twitt nodded.

"I'm getting a toy solider and he's going to go to war and protect the Empire, like you, Doctor!" he said brightly. I held back my scoff. I doubted highly whether young Ronald knew what the Empire was, but he did seem to look up to my fellow-lodger.

Melinda Babbit, a new addition who was proving herself to be most level-headed (Watson was evidently quite correct when he told me that I was being unfair in denying girls entrance to the Irregulars. There were certainly places where she was more welcome than the boys were). "My old hoop set broke last summer and Father Christmas is bringing me a new one."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" I said. "It's time you realized there is no Father Christmas! Did you think it was actually possible for one man to fly all over the world in one night and deliver presents through the chimney? Reindeer don't fly, and such a large man could never fit down a chimney." I shook my head; why anyone should want to perpetuate this falsehood was something I could not understand.

Sam was watching me, shocked, and Ronald's lower tip began to tremble. "But – but it's magic, Mr. Holmes," he said tremulously. I looked around, seeing four pairs of angry eyes staring at me – no, five; Watson was giving me no less a glare than Wiggins was. Why? I looked at them in confusion and Wiggins soon took his younger charges out the door.

"Don't listen to Mr. Holmes, Sam," he said as they left.

"But Mr. Holmes is the smartest man in the world!" I heard Sam say, and I confess, my lips twitched upward at that.

"Really, Holmes, must you destroy their faith in Father Christmas?" Watson asked me accusingly. "Sam and Ronald are not even seven years old yet!"

"Is it not a kindness, Watson?" I asked. "You see the conditions in which my Irregulars live? How can their families afford the sort of gifts Father Christmas would be likely to bring? I am doing my best to prepare them for life in the real world." I took my responsibility to the Irregulars rather more seriously than I had thought when I first recruited them, thinking of them only as useful scouts. Already their previous leader was proving himself in his new position, which he swore he only had because of me. It had seemed reasonable enough at the time

"That is all the more reason to allow them to have what childhood they can now!" Watson said. "Evidently they have managed in past years! What did Father Christmas ever do to you that you must erase all evidence of him?"

"Nothing, Watson," I said. My father had attempted to engage my brother and I in the legend, no doubt in an attempt to understand us on some level. I need hardly say that it failed miserably; Mycroft patiently outlined every reason for why Father Christmas could not exist at the age of six, to my father's extreme disappointment and I had always been more inclined to believe my brother than my father. "You know I deal only in facts."

"You must have been a most difficult child to entertain," Watson said dryly. "Find some way to make this up to the Irregulars, or else you will find yourself without your unofficial police force. Word will spread among them, be sure of that."

I sighed. He was likely right; and I could not do without my little detective force. "How am I supposed to prove the existence of a man in a flying sleigh who does not actually exist?"

Watson merely raised an eyebrow at me. "You have solved more cases than any other detective in London, official or private. Surely you can figure it out?"

I sighed peevishly. He was determined to be no help, and I pulled out my pipe to mull over the problem. Where was I to find a Father Christmas? No doubt Mycroft would laugh to see me so perplexed. I sat up, a realization dawning on me. I hurried out the door without a word to Watson, amazed that I had actually found a solution.

* * *

"You want me to do _what?_ " Mycroft said, sitting across from me in the Strangers' Room at the Diogenes Club.

"Come, Mycroft, I will provide the suit and the false beard. All you need to do is wear it!" I said. I did hoped he agreed; I had already placed orders for the gifts my Irregulars had requested and if there was no one to carry them in a sack my whole plan should be ruined.

"Sherlock, I have not believed in Father Christmas since I was five years old, I dislike children, and I will have to stay out later than I am accustomed!" my brother scowled at me, but I was too used to him to be bothered by it. He gave me the same look every time I insisted he accompany me on some childish plan, and he always did.

"I will be glad to invite you for dinner first," I said. "I am in danger of losing my unofficial police force if you do not! Besides, Watson was most unhappy with me."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Fine, I will do it, only so you do not appear here every night whinging about how the Doctor is angry with you."

* * *

The night of Christmas Eve, I was most pleased with myself. Mycroft was in my bedroom getting ready; after a meal even he could find nothing at fault with. Watson had gone to round up the Irregulars, and I heard the telltale sounds of their footsteps on the steps.

"What is it, Mr. Holmes, is it a case? On Christmas Eve?" Wiggins asked eagerly, throwing open the door.

"No, no, Wiggins, nothing like that," I said. "I only wanted to bring you here to show you something." I gently knocked on the wall behind me, the signal for Mycroft to arrive.

Even I was surprised by how thoroughly my brother had transformed himself into Father Christmas; the red suit I had found fit him perfectly, and he appeared as jolly as the legends said. The false beard was thick and curly, and even I could barely recognize Mycroft's features underneath it. "Ho, ho, ho!" he said, and Watson had to turn away, lest he start laughing. "I believe someone wrote the wrong address on all these gifts!"

He set down the sack full of the Irregulars' presents, and about fifteen pairs of wide eyes stared at me. "How did you manage to figure out Father Christmas was going to bring our presents here?" Ronald asked accusingly.

"He's a _detective_ , Ronald, it's what he does," Melinda said, stepping up to the front. "Excuse me, Mr. Father Christmas, did you really come here just for us? 'Cause we're not supposed to see you, are we?"

Mycroft laughed again. "Clever girl. I had so many gifts for you that I needed to come here first and unload my sleigh. It's on the roof, can you hear it?" His booming voice echoed throughout the room, a signal for Mrs. Hudson, upstairs in Watson's room, to gently bang on the walls. She did so, and a few of the Irregulars gasped.

"It's the reindeer," little Sam whispered to his companion, a boy who could not be more than five, who stared up at both me and Mycroft in awe.

"Then how come you said there was no Father Christmas?" Ronald asked. "There is, he's right there!"

"Shh!" Wiggins said, grinning up at Mycroft. "Ronald, Father Christmas only gives coal to the kids what don't believe in him." I could not help smirking; Ronald clapped a hand over his mouth and gave a very muffled apology through it. Wiggins caught my eye and smiled; and although I knew he must know the truth, he seemed happy to go along.

"Here you are, then," Mycroft said. "I must hurry, all the other children need their gifts as well!" He pulled out a hoop set, which Melinda took, wide-eyed, and Sam's whittling knife. Watson took it and smiled. "This is a very good knife, Sam, be sure you take care of it."

"I will!" Sam said, clutching his treasure to his chest. "Thank you, Father Christmas!"

"You're welcome, Sam," Mycroft said, and the little boy squealed on realized Father Christmas knew his name. "And for you, Ronald, a whole set of toy soldiers."

I believe Ronald's eyes nearly fell out on seeing it. "I only wanted one!" he said, and soon a whole crowd of little boys were watching in awe.

"And for Wiggins," Mycroft said, and my deputy looked up in shock. I don't think he believed he would receive anything, but he took the cricket bat and ball gingerly, as if he couldn't believe it was his.

"How did you know I wanted this?" he asked in awe. "I didn't tell anyone!" I hid my smirk. It was not a hard deduction; the boy asked Watson constantly about the sports he had watched in his university days.

"It's his job to know, Wiggins, you ought to know that!" Sam said, engaged in a fierce battle on the floor with Ronald's toy soldiers, and everyone laughed, even Wiggins.

"Thank you," I whispered to Mycroft as he made a discreet exit while they were occupied.

He rolled his eyes. "You are becoming entirely too sentimental, Sherlock. I hope you realize that."

"There is no need to be _insulting_ , Mycroft," I said, shutting my bedroom door behind him.

"Hey, where did Father Christmas go?" Sam asked, looking up.

I was at a loss but Watson stepped in. "Why, up the chimney, of course! How else is he to get back to his sleigh?" He smiled at their looks of awe, and soon they all trooped down the stairs with their new gifts, each wishing us a Merry Christmas as they left.

"That," Watson said, "was the most extraordinary thing you have ever done, Holmes." He smiled at me. "You quite made their holiday for them, I believe."

I scoffed. "Come, Watson, I was merely making amends." Their happy faces came back to me though and I smiled in spite of myself. "Perhaps it is not such a bad thing after all, Father Christmas." I cleared my throat as Watson looked knowingly at me. "You are a terrible influence, Watson, really."

Watson merely laughed. "If you say so, Holmes."


	24. Chapter 24

From cjnwriter - In which the Baker Street Irregulars make an appearance

A/N Set around 1873/74, when Holmes was first beginning his career. I'm trying something new here; child perspective is something I've been working on for another writing project, and I thought I'd use it to see how the Irregulars got started. (I think I've written more about the Irregulars for this Calendar of Awesomeness than I have in my entire career writing Holmes).

* * *

Wiggins followed his neighbor, Peter Ramsay, down the street, dodging horses, carriages, and all the other people. He gazed up at his neighbor in some awe; Peter Ramsay was nearly twelve, and Wiggins didn't think such a big boy would have time for a little five year old like him. But Peter had taken to him, and Wiggins was glad. None of the other boys made fun of him anymore and sometimes Peter got him some toys to play with. He thought it was like having a big brother, although he didn't really know, since he only had little sisters. But Peter had taken him around to some of the other boys on their street, some as little as Wiggins, others almost as old as Peter, and now no one dared to mess with them.

Now, Wiggins tried to make himself look taller, so Peter wouldn't get tired of looking out for him, and they passed by a pub that even Wiggins's mum had told him never to go into. "Full of dirty thieves, and worse," she had said. Wiggins didn't know what could be worse than thieves, but he didn't want to find out. As they passed, Peter threw out a hand to stop him as someone fell out of the pub and landed in front of them.

"And stay out, you hear me?" a big man was yelling from the door. Wiggins tried to watch from behind Peter's hand, interested. The man who had fallen was getting up, and he was much taller than anyone Wiggins had ever seen, and very thin. Instead of being scared of the big man in the pub, he simply glared at him, straightened his coat and walked away.

"Hey, mister!" Peter yelled. Wiggins gasped.

"Don't talk to him, Peter!"

"Why not? If he's getting' thrown out o' there he must be all right," Peter said. "Hey!" The tall man finally turned around and looked down at them. Wiggins gulped; he looked almost as scary as the man in the pub.

"What is it?" the tall man asked.

"You shouldn't go in there, sir, it's bad news. Everyone what goes in there is drunk or worse," Peter said. "Likes o' you can find what you're looking for somewhere else, can't you?"

Wiggins looked at Peter in confusion, before he realized. This tall man was a _toff_. Someone from the part of London where people lived in separate rooms and had warm fires all the time. He'd never known anyone like that; he hadn't even known it existed until Peter had told him (although he didn't know how Peter knew either).

"As it happens, I can't," the tall man said. "I'm looking for a man who I am sure has murdered at least two dockworkers, yet has never been caught."

Peter looked at him distrustfully, holding Wiggins back protectively. "You a copper?"

The tall man laughed. "No, certainly not. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am a detective."

Wiggins had never heard of a name like Sherlock Holmes, and he didn't know what a detective was, but he'd never seen a copper like this.

"So you're a copper, then?" Peter asked, crossing his arms and looking angry.

Sherlock Holmes scowled. "No, I am not. The official police are generally incompetent, and I am proud to say I am not of their number."

Wiggins didn't understand all of that, but he thought it was insulting. He didn't like coppers either; just last year they'd taken Peter's friend Gilbert away for trying to make some extra money selling liquor. None of them had seen Gilbert again. Wiggins pulled on Peter's sleeve. "I think he's telling the truth, Pete."

"Why?" Peter asked, glaring up at Sherlock Holmes. "It'd be just like a copper to lie, wouldn't it?"

"But they wouldn't dare throw a copper out the door like that!" Wiggins said, and to his surprise, Sherlock Holmes began to laugh. Wiggins was much less frightened now; he wasn't as scary looking when he laughed.

"Excellent, young man, what's your name?"

"Wiggins, sir," Wiggins said quietly. "Are you really tryin' to catch a murderer?" he asked.

"Yes, I am," Sherlock Holmes said. "Although I haven't had very much luck; that pub was my last chance." He sighed, and Peter loosened his grip on Wiggins's arm.

"You want to go down to the warehouse two streets that way," he said, motioning to the left. "It's empty, least, that's what they want you think. He stands there and gets men to work for him. Pays 'em good, till they chicken out. Then you find them with their throats cut."

Sherlock Holmes stared at him. "You know the man I am looking for?"

Peter shrugged. "'Course I do. All of us here know him; no one goes to him for work 'cept the most desperate. Folks here are right scared of him." He stood up taller. "If you were to get rid of him, you'd be doing all of us a favor, and that's a fact."

"But how do you know this?" Sherlock Holmes cried. "You can't be more than twelve years old."

"You think anybody notices us?" Peter asked. "There's hundreds of boys like us on the streets. Nobody gives us a second glance. Or a first, come to that."

Wiggins nodded when Sherlock Holmes looked at him. Nobody ever noticed them; it was how he got to steal bread from the market stalls and snuck around meeting his friends. The detective looked at them, and finally said, "Thank you, Mr…"

"Peter Ramsay," Peter said, looking a little impressed when Mr. Holmes shook his hand formally.

"Mr. Ramsay, how would you like to work for me?" Mr. Holmes asked. "Doing exactly what you're doing, sneaking around and finding out things I may need to know."

"Can I do it too?" Wiggins broke in excitedly. It sounded fun, and when Mr. Holmes pulled out two shillings and handed them one each, his eyes went wide. He'd never had a whole shilling to himself before.

"Of course you can, and if you know any other young boys who'd like the chance, bring them along. I need eyes all over the city, you know," Mr. Holmes said. "You can find me on Montague Street. You know where that is?"

"Yes," Peter said. "I know some others," he added. "You sure you got work for all of us?"

"More than sure," Mr. Holmes said. "I cannot believe I never thought of this before; I have little knowledge of this part of the city and what better way to keep an eye on things? Thank you, lads. Report to Montague Street tomorrow for your first instructions."

"We will, sir," Peter said, pocketing his shilling. Wiggins watched Mr. Holmes walk down the street, then looked up at Peter.

"Are we really goin' to do it? Help him catch murderers and thieves and the like?" he asked excitedly.

"Looks like it," Peter said. "Like he said, he don't know our side of London, he needs us if he's to find anyone. Woulda failed if he didn't." Wiggins didn't believe he was really so uninterested; his eyes were shining and he seemed excited too. "We better go get Davey and Ernie and the others. If he's got enough shillings for all of us they'll all want in."

Wiggins liked the idea of more shillings, but the whole thing seemed like a great adventure. He'd thought he was too little for adventures, and people only had adventures in faraway places, not here in London. But now there was an adventure right at his front door, and he and his friends would get to do it together. It was the most exciting thing any of them had ever done, and he pulled Peter along the street. "Come on, then, let's go!"

"All right, I'm coming," Peter said. "And we got to tell Mr. Holmes tomorrow, we need a name, like a real group, if we're to work for him." He grinned at Wiggins. "C'mon, Wiggins, we have important work to do now."


	25. Chapter 25

From silvermouse - Reindeer

A/N Merry Christmas! I'm sorry, I couldn't come up with something more festive for this prompt, but Moran is my favorite Canon antagonist and it's long past time I do something about him.

* * *

 _From the Game Journal of Sebastian Moran, Col, Ret'd_

 _19 October, 1871_

 _Lapland, Sweden_

 _Two reindeer, male, one 350 lbs, the other 450._

I have only now got to a warm enough place to write down my catch for the day. There is less challenge in hunting these reindeer than I was led to believe by my guides; they travel in herds so large that a hunter need only pick off which animal he chooses. Lying in wait to find the right animal among many is a very different experience than stalking and bagging a single specimen, one altogether too easy for a hunter such as myself, used as I am to tigers, lions and elephants. There is, however, a certain logistical challenge in reindeer hunting. The cold weather makes the necessary waiting nearly interminable, and the constant layer of snow makes traveling with one's catch difficult.

While I am glad to have bagged such fine specimens (the antlers alone are a worthy trophy and will add greatly to my décor in my London rooms), and to add the experience of hunting in a cold, snow-filled environment to my considerable knowledge of the subject, I find myself more restless than usual. Ordinarily, there is never any calmer time than that after a successful hunt; the knowledge that I alone have proved myself master over nature is a powerful feeling. Today, I am not content. Perhaps the hunt was too easy; I am not used to bagging my kill so soon after starting out. I was barely gone a day. My guides were astonished when I told them of week-long forays into the jungles of India, stalking a single tiger until exactly the right moment. _That_ required true patience and skill, and once complete, any hunter would know himself a true predator. Compared to that, hunting reindeer is child's play, no more difficult than the first deer I brought down as a child.

Perhaps I should move on, in search of better prey. But as I look through the pages of this journal, I find examples of nearly every creature known to man, each larger and more dangerous than the last. I find not only the records of my prize tigers, from my years in India, but my childish records of my first hunts as well, cut from their own books and pasted in here, so my record is complete. And I find the records of the animals I have hunted since my expulsion from India – elephants and lions in Africa, snow leopards in Nepal, bears, elk and bison in the prairies of Canada, even a jaguar from the rainforest in South America. And now, my two reindeer. For the first time in my career, I do not know where to go next. I cannot think of another creature I have not already set myself against and been victorious.

I would be content to return to London and retire; I have set myself up as a gentleman, and none there know of my history in India. It would be a simple matter, and then I could write the books I have always wished to: records of my hunting journeys and textbooks for those who would follow in my footsteps. And yet, I know myself, and I know I would not remain content for long. My blood would burn for the chase again within a matter of months, and this time I would have no outlet for it. I am no retired gentleman, to go contentedly off into the dusk while others trace my footsteps and break my records. I am a hunter, and I know I am the greatest the Empire has yet produced. Am I to do nothing from now on but remember better days?

Enough. This journal is a record of my hunts, nothing more. I will return to London, and perhaps several months of the boredom and routine of the city will compel me to find some new hunt to take on.

 _2 January, 1872_

This record of my hunts has remained dormant these last few months since I returned to England, but I must sort out my thoughts and have nowhere else to do so. I see in my last entry I speculated that being in London would cause me to take on a new hunt out of boredom, and I was correct, in a way. I have been approached.

The man who approached me is unlike anyone I have met before. He is self-contained, and intelligent. I will not write his name here, lest this journal fall into someone's hands, however unlikely that is. I shall call him only the Professor. He has a proposition for me. I do not know how he found me; he says it is because of my fame as a hunter and my unique background in India. How he knew of that, I don't know. I very nearly took his head off when he mentioned it; afraid he was going to expose my story to the public, but he assured me that he has a use for a man like me.

Here I shall write his words as best I remember them, for nothing else can convey the extraordinary quality of The Professor's intelligence and perception. "I don't doubt, Colonel, that you find it difficult to live as you do among these people," the Professor said, eyeing the antlers above my mantle with some interest.

I assented; I was finding my daily routine at the card club stifling. If only those blowhards knew what I thought of them! I would no longer be known as the mild-mannered former soldier they saw! The Professor smiled tightly and went on, "I find myself in need of a strong man, one with a ready gun and no qualms about using it. Are you that man? I make no false promises; the world of crime is fickle and it will be difficult going but the rewards will be great once we are there, and I can promise a hunt unlike any you have ever had."

In an instant I realized what the Professor meant; my skill set was uniquely suited to the work he was describing, and I had already been somewhat involved in crime in India. I cared not about the rewards; I had money enough from my father, but the _challenge_ , the hunt, this time against my fellow man…that I could not pass up and I smiled at the Professor.

"I believe I am exactly the man you're looking for," I said, shaking his hand, excitement coursing through me for the first time in months. What a stroke of luck, that the Professor and I should be brought together like this. I am sure that we will soon be the heads of such an empire to rival the worst opium smugglers from China.

Now, I must clean my rifle, unused these past few months, and see how it will fare against my new prey.


	26. Chapter 26

From Madam'zelleGiry - Quite a literal taste of "boxing day."

* * *

When I found myself sharing rooms with such an unusual fellow as my friend Sherlock Holmes, I had little to do other than observe my fellow-lodger. It was quite fortunate for me that he proved to be the most interesting man I had met in a long time, and even after the events of the case I would later title _A Study in Scarlet_ , I continued to observe him and to try and determine his habits.

It was during September of 1881, and my companion had left me alone for most of the week, going out at night and not returning until the odd hours of the morning. I thought little of this, as his hours were unusual, until he emerged from his bedroom to breakfast with an enormous bruise covering his cheek. "Holmes!" I cried. "What happened?"

"This?" he asked, motioning to the bruise and beginning to butter himself some toast with hardly a care for it. "It is common enough in my profession, Watson. I must become accustomed to it."

Naturally, this did not have the calming effect he undoubtedly anticipated. I stared at him. "Holmes, did someone attack you on a case? Are you alright? Why did you not ask for my assistance if it was to be a dangerous assignment?"

Holmes laughed to see my concern. "Come, Watson, it is not all that bad. I am sure that I shall be fine in a few days, if I can avoid something similar happening again."

I put down my forkful of eggs in some worry. "Holmes, are you going somewhere tonight? If there is even a chance of your being attacked, I insist you allow me to accompany you!"

"Very well, Watson, if you insist," my friend said wearily. "I assure you, it is not what you think."

That night, Holmes led me to a side street I had never been on before, in an area of London not known for its quality. "Is this where you have been going? You ought to know better than to come here without a companion?" I whispered to him.

"It is not – ah, here it is," Holmes said, opening the door to a nondescript building. The room inside was full of people, many of whom were drinking and talking excitedly. I looked around in some trepidation, my gaze finally landing on a ring in the center of the room. My eyes widened in understanding.

"A boxing club?" I inquired, and Holmes nodded.

"Indeed, Watson. I have found the art of pugilism useful in the past, and in the absence of a case, I decided to use the time to sharpen my skills." He went up to the organizers' table and put his name down for a match, then sat next to me in the front row.

"This is not what I expected," I said as the first fight started. "I knew you had boxed but I did not know you were still involved in the sport."

"As an amateur only," Holmes said, eyes on the ring as two men twice his size battled it out in front of us. "After all, my goal is to use the skills in my profession as detective, not as a boxer per se."

"Holmes and Carrew!" the referee called, and my friend handed me his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. I looked at his opponent. While he was no heavier than Holmes, he was considerably more muscled, and I eyed my lean companion with some worry.

Holmes smiled. "Do not worry, Watson, I shall be fine. Besides, I owe him for the bruise he left on my cheek the last time we met."

" _This_ is the fellow who beat you?" I asked, but Holmes had already entered the ring. Soon the two were circling around each other, each sizing up his opponent.

Soon, the match started, and it was, I believe, unmatched in its ferocity. I know little about boxing, as I was always a rugby man myself, but I soon determined that Holmes was a controlled, careful fighter. I watched him methodically searching for his opponent's weakness, using his lightness to remain quick on his feet and out of arm's reach. _He is tiring the fellow out_ , I realized.

His opponent, Carrew, was entirely the opposite. Evidently used to relying on his strength, he attacked with a fierceness that would have caused a lesser man to quail. I confess I gasped aloud when I saw him land multiple punches on my fellow-lodger, only to realize that Holmes was _allowing_ him to do so. Once I realized that my friend was entirely in control of what seemed to be a violent brawl, I relaxed and even began to find the match exciting. I could easily see why Holmes, so solitary and self-controlled, had turned to boxing as his sport of choice.

It was over more quickly than I had expected, after Holmes delivered a harsh uppercut, knocking Carrew backward, where he fell and didn't get up. The referee declared Holmes the winner and he came back to sit next to me with a small smile of satisfaction. "Now he and I are even," he said. "An excellent fight. You see, Watson, it took me some time to determine what strategy to use against him, but once I did, it was quite easy."

"Holmes, your lip is bleeding," I said, pulling out my handkerchief and handing it to him. "Here, press on it and the bleeding will stop. Does anything else hurt?"

Holmes shook his head, pressing my handkerchief to his lip and then smiled. "Not at all, Doctor. Although I assure you that if I ever do find myself in need of medical care, I shall certainly come to you."

I blinked. "Oh. Well, thank you, Holmes."

"Not at all, Watson," Holmes said. "Just as I hope you will come to me should you ever have a mystery that needs to be solved."

I laughed. "Of course, Holmes. Who _else_ would I go to? You are the only consulting detective in the world!"


	27. Chapter 27

From cjnwriter - A trip to the sea goes wrong

* * *

"Holmes, will you please hurry?" I called from outside the cottage. "What can possibly be taking you so long?"

He emerged from the front door a few seconds later, laden down with bags and looking annoyed. "We need a great deal if we are to take a trip to the sea, Watson," he said.

I rolled my eyes. "We are not going to the unexplored shores of Africa, Holmes. It is only about an hour's journey from here." I started the car, smiling at Holmes's disgruntled expression. He was not fond of my new automobile, but I found it a convenient way to navigate Sussex Downs. Besides, I very much enjoyed the feeling of being in control of such a large machine, and the gentle breeze as we traversed the countryside.

The area Holmes had chosen for his retirement was quiet and not very populated, so even at the height of summer, such as now, the beach was relatively empty. I surveyed the Channel once we arrived, feeling a great peace steal over me. It was not the open ocean; I knew that France was not that far away, but I could not see it and I set up our two chairs under an umbrella and sighed contentedly as I sat down. Holmes took his seat next to me and sighed.

"It is a pity the water is too cold to swim in. It is wonderful exercise," he remarked.

I chuckled. "This is _England_ , Holmes. The water is always too cold to swim." I looked over at him. "It is nice to simply relax as well." The sun felt warm and for once, there was not a cloud in sight.

"Relaxation has never come easy for me," Holmes said grandly (and unnecessarily; I was well aware of this). "But in my retirement, perhaps it is a useful skill to learn."

I rolled my eyes fondly. He had become much more mellow in his retirement, but still, only Sherlock Holmes would think of relaxation as a skill to be learned!

The warmth of the sun, occasionally interrupted by a gentle breeze had a soporific effect, and I soon found myself drifting off to sleep in my chair, and I awoke feeling very rested, more so than I had since returning home from the war. The sea air was undoubtedly beneficial to one's health, as I had told many patients over the years. Holmes and I should really do this more often.

"Holmes?" I said, looking to my left. "Was I-" The chair was empty, and I sat up, looking over the horizon. There was no sign of him. I sighed and got up wearily, determined to find him. One never knew what Holmes might do if he was bored, and I set off, growing more worried as I walked along more and more of the beach with no sign of him.

"Hello!" I called to the only other person I could see, a lone fisherman tying up his lines. "Have you seen anyone else here today? A tall, thin, elderly man perhaps?"

The fisherman shook his head. "No, sir, I'm sorry to say I've seen no one except yourself."

I sighed. Sometimes being with Holmes was very much like watching after an overexcited child, especially now that he was retired and continually sought ways to occupy himself. I looked out at the water, a horrible thought striking me. Holmes was naturally athletic and a good swimmer, but we were both aging, and he often refused to acknowledge this. What if he had inadvertently swum out too far to return?

I ran into the water, ignoring its cold on my legs. "Holmes!" I cried. "Holmes!" There was no answer, and I finally began to panic. I ran along the beach, hoping that he might have been swimming closer to our beach chairs. But I looked out over the water and there was no sign of him. I held my breath. What if he was already gone?

I sat down, trying to determine what to do. I was beginning to feel almost as I had that horrible day at the Reichenbach Falls before I shook my head. There was no reason to think anything like that had happened. I was surely overreacting.

Then I laughed. This was Sherlock Holmes, quite literally _anything_ could have happened, and it would do him a disservice to start eliminating the impossible before I proved it was actually impossible.

 _You know his methods. Sit down and think_ , I told myself firmly. I realized belatedly that he could not possibly have gone swimming, as I saw no footprints leading to the sea. What a fool I was! I had wasted precious moments chasing a theory that was so easily disproved. I turned over other ideas in my mind. He may have gone back to the car, and I began heading up to where we had parked it, only to see immediately that no tall, thin figure was anywhere near it.

I sat down despondently on my chair, trying to determine where else he may have gone when I heard a voice calling to me. I looked up to see a figure approaching, and sighed in relief when I realized it was none other than Sherlock Holmes. "Holmes!" I cried, going to meet him. "Where have you been?"

Holmes looked quite confused to see my almost panicked expression. "There is a small stand just on the other side of those cliffs there. They have some bags of cashews, would you like one?"

"Wha- cashews?" I asked blankly, accepting one from him without realizing. "I didn't know where you had gone! I thought you had drowned in the Channel!"

Holmes looked as if he wanted to laugh, but controlled the desire out of deference to my state of mind. "I am sorry, Watson. I would have told you but I did not want to wake you."

I sighed. "No, it is quite all right. I probably overreacted."

"Considering the last time you lost sight of me I seemingly plunged off a cliff, I would say that you did not, in fact, overreact," Holmes said.

I laughed, my mood lifting. "Well, now that you're here, we can enjoy the rest of this beautiful day."

"An excellent idea, my dear Watson," Holmes said, sitting next to me on his chair. "I do think I could come to enjoy retirement, you know."


	28. Chapter 28

From cjnwriter - Holmes making crafts... "It's for a case!"

A/N I had so much fun with this prompt :)

* * *

I glared in the direction of the needles in my hands. Confound this craft! I did not understand how women did this, day in and day out. I must have ripped out my stitches at least five times, and I had gotten no farther since I began at least an hour ago.

I barely glanced up as Watson entered, although I believe he raised his eyebrow high enough that I could almost _hear_ it. "Holmes, what are you doing?" he asked, in the tone which meant he was worried about my sanity.

I suppose I have given my fellow-lodger enough to worry about over the years that it is justified. I sighed irritably. "It is for a case, Watson!" I said.

"Holmes, what possible case requires you to learn how to _knit_?" he asked. "What is that supposed to be?" he added, nodding to my project with some trepidation.

I held up the bundle of yarn, currently tangled and sad-looking. "It is going to be a scarf, Watson." I gestured toward the pattern; a simple one, or so I had thought, with a simply but pleasing pattern. At least, it was supposed to be simple. I had spent an hour's time trying to determine the difference between "knitting" and "purling." One would think that since the entire craft was known as knitting, a different word would be used for fully half of the stitches used!

I looked up at Watson, seeing him attempt to hide a smile. "It is not funny, Watson!"

He came in closer, inspecting what little work I had completed. "Well, Holmes, you see to have figured out the pattern somewhere in the fourth row. Perhaps if you continue on from there it will get easier." He looked at me curiously. "Did your mother not knit?"

Had she? I hadn't the faintest idea. I doubted it; my mother was fond of telling people that she was distantly related to true French artists (as a way of distinguishing them from the apparently false English artists we had) and of my father's status as a landed gentleman, however lowly ranked. I shook my head. "I believe she would have considered it beneath her station," I said, glaring at the needles again. "Although it may simply be that knitting does not run in our blood as art does."

Watson chuckled. "Well, Holmes, I still do not understand why you need to learn the craft yourself for a case, but you did not learn the art of deduction in a day, did you?"

"No, you are quite correct, Doctor, I did not," I said, attempting to finish a row and sighing in exasperation as I dropped yet another stitch. "How the deuce did anyone invent such a cumbersome way of making things?" I exclaimed, finding the dropped stitch and reknitting it with some difficulty.

"I shall leave you to it, then," Watson said, heading upstairs with the newspaper. I gritted my teeth and got on with it, calming down after about half an hour, when it began to get easier and more rhythmic. I smiled. "I believe I have it!" I said the empty room, my stitches going faster and faster. Once I realized how to avoid making mistakes, it became quite easy, really. Perhaps I would even be able to finish more than the five samples I had promised my client.

After a time, I began to notice that the rows seemed…longer, than they had been, taking up more space on the needles. I furrowed my brows; why should that be happening? I continued knitting, hoping that it was a mere trick of the eye, or that it should fix itself, only to find that it continued to happen. The more I knit, the longer each row became until the entire project was finally scrunched onto the needles and I had no space with which to work. I stared at it in horror; I didn't know how to fix this!

At that moment, Watson same down the stairs with his finished newspaper. "How is it going?" he asked.

"Watson, it is getting bigger!" I cried desperately, holding the project up to him.

He inspected it and began to laugh. "Holmes, I believe you have been adding stitches as you go. The matron at school used to give the girls all sorts of admonitions about that sort of thing."

"How do I fix it?" I asked.

Watson studied it further. "Um..well, I…perhaps Mrs. Hudson will know," he finally finished sheepishly. "Let me go get her."

He returned a few moments later, our landlady in tow. "What is it, Mr. Holmes?" she asked warily.

I merely held up my knitting in despair. "Are you able to fix this, by any chance?"

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes and took it from me, sitting down in Watson's armchair and beginning to rip out all my work. I cried out, attempting to stop, but she fixed me with a glare the like of which I have not seen since I burned a hole through the table with chemicals. "You've made a mess of this, Mr. Holmes. If you needed to learn to knit, why wouldn't you come to me first?"

Oh. I swallowed and glanced up at Watson to see him hiding laughter behind his hand. She was, obviously, quite correct. I would have saved myself a great deal of time and trouble if I had simply asked for her tutoring. "I am sorry, Mrs. Hudson," I said, making sure I sounded more sincere than usual.

"Well, that's alright," Mrs. Hudson grumbled as she tore out half my stitches. "What is this for anyway?"

"I am tracking the whereabouts of a ring of petty thieves who are known for swindling the peddlers and stall owners on Market Street," I said. "I am posing as one of them to gain evidence."

Mrs. Hudson and Watson both stared at me. "What?" I asked. It was perfectly logical. How else was I supposed to get first hand evidence of the crimes?

"Well, I think we are both wondering," Watson began, "why you did not pose as some sort of seller for something you already know how to do?"

"Did you think I was going to hang a shingle out advertising my services as detective?" I asked irritably. "That would have rather given me away, don't you agree?"

"Yes, of course," Watson said. "But you certainly could have posed a specialty book seller. We have enough of those monographs about to stock an entire shop." He gazed around at the unsold copies of my various monographs, now taking up space on the floor.

"No one on Market Street would have any interest in monographs on the various types of wood used in making walking-sticks!" I said.

Watson sighed and muttered something under his breath that sounded as if he thought _no one_ was interested in such a monograph. I did have to admit he was correct; I had never had much success with my written work. "Besides, I asked the market-owner and he informed me they had need of someone who stocks knit goods," I finished.

"Well, here you are," Mrs. Hudson said, handing me back my knitting, now fixed and back to its correct width, although with much shorter than it had been. "I had to rip out a good portion of it. While I'm here, let me watch you. I'll show you how to get it right."

Show me she did, over the course of the entire afternoon, at which time I produced a passable scarf and began on a second one. Mrs. Hudson brought her needles up and made one as well, saying that I'd never stock a full shop with how slow a knitter I was, and soon I had a good stock. "Thank you," I said at the end of the day. "I shall only need a few more before I have my evidence and can stop this." Good riddance. I shall find another hobby to pursue; one far less complicated. Such as beekeeping. Now _there_ is a useful pastime.


	29. Chapter 29

From KnightFury - Masquerade

A/N I'm not generally a fan of Irene Adler, or at least, I'm not a fan of how much she's been overused in every pastiche and adaptation since the initial publication of the Canon, but this prompt was _begging_ me to write about her.

* * *

"A masquerade ball?" Irene Adler asked. "At court?"

"Yes, I should think so," the Prince said. The Crown Prince. Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein. He paced around the small hotel room they had taken, and Irene very nearly offered him some wine to calm his nerves. She had only been seeing him for a few short months, in secret as per his request – nay, his insistence! He sighed. "The thing is, I really cannot ask you at all, only I am expected to arrive with a partner and I know no one else."

 _That is because you refuse to allow me to introduce you to my friends_ , Irene thought. She wondered if he truly knew how he sounded; telling her constantly that he could not be seen with her without compromising his position as one of the most eligible bachelors in Europe. She tried to remember that she was no longer in America. Class divisions may have existed there, but it would hardly have been a crime for a wealthy magnate to associate with an opera singer in America. Here, however, the rules were different, and if she wanted to survive, she would have to play by them.

"As you know, I find these court events exceedingly dull," the Prince continued. "Your presence would no doubt make it more lively." He seemed to realize at that moment who he was speaking to and added hastily, "As long as you give no hint of your identity!"

At times Irene felt rather badly for the Prince. True, he was arrogant, full of his rank and his status, often refusing to see good in anyone lower ranked than himself, but he had been kind to her. Doted on her, really, and she often thought he was stifling in the rules the European ruling houses set upon themselves. If he could only get himself out of that mindset, he would likely be happier, and perhaps a good deal kinder and wiser.

Instead of saying this, Irene simply smiled. "Isn't that the point of a masquerade ball, my love? To hide one's identity, be someone else for a night?" It did sound exciting. Irene had been to many receptions, balls and parties, but never a court event before. The nobility were happy enough to come to her performances so long as they did not have to associate with the lowly ranked singers in public. All she did in reaction to this attitude was smile, wondering how any of them – Wilhelm included – would react if they knew she had been born in a poor area of New Jersey, and struggled to survive after her father's death in the Civil War. _See how far one can rise, given the chance_ , she would say. Then again, no one in her hometown would have believed it either, if they could see her about to attend a court ball on the arm of a crown prince of Europe.

The Prince sighed in relief. "I knew you would understand! You are a jewel among women, Irene!"

Irene laughed lightly, fingering the large emerald ring he had given her. Sometimes she thought that if he were free to choose, he would ask her to marry him. She would refuse, of course. She did not love him, and she had seen enough infatuation to know that his ardor would run its course. But for the time being, he was pleasant to be with, a good person for a young American woman alone in Europe to know and the source of a great many new experiences for her.

"Do not worry," the Prince said, kissing her gently. "Even though no one will know you, I am sure you will be the most alluring lady there!"

"Oh, I am sure of that," Irene said. She had every intention of making sure no one would ever forget the night Irene Adler went to a masquerade ball with the Crown Prince of Bohemia.

The night of the masquerade ball arrived, and Irene sat in her hired carriage calmly, watching everyone else arrive. She had refused Wilhelm's offer to pick her up, saying instead that she would meet him there. She had the idea that he would have tried to convince her to change her mind about her disguise, and she wanted to make sure he had no chance to do so. "Right here," Irene said, stopping her driver at the entrance and getting out. She made sure her mask was in place; it was large, with purple feathers over the eyeholes that soared out above the top of her head, and it went down nearly to the tops of her lips. No one should recognize her, as Wilhelm had instructed.

However, that was the _only_ consideration she had made toward not standing out. Her outfit was designed after a riding habit, with a deep violet velvet coat, with a military inspired cut and buttons. She wore deep green gloves, and a matching cravat was at her throat. A gold brooch, tucked into the folds of the cravat, was her only jewelry; designed after military medals she had seen. Underneath the coat was a pair of violet trousers, made of velvet like the coat, and slightly wider than men's trousers, for comfort and ease of movement. Underneath were glittering shoes set with emeralds. Irene smiled to herself under the mask. She could already see the looks she was attracting, several countesses or duchesses or whatever other rank staring at her in open shock. Their own frilly gowns were no match for her daring choice, and she held her head high and entered the palace.

Wilhelm was waiting in the entrance hall and she glided over to him, enjoying the ease of movement men's clothing brought her. If she was going to be dancing, and she had no intention of leaving the floor all night, then one of those constricting ball gowns would hardly do. Behind her, some elderly dowagers were whispering to each other. Irene caught the word "scandalous" and hid her smile.

"Your Highness," Irene said, approaching Wilhelm and bowing as she had to in this public place.

"Miss-" his breath hitched as he turned around and took in her outfit. "Irene!" he breathed.

"Do you like it?" Irene asked. "I had it designed especially for tonight."

Wilhelm still appeared to be in shock as several men walked by, obviously ignoring their own partners in favor of staring at Irene. "It is," he began, then swallowed, apparently unable to figure out exactly _what_ it was. "It is…unlike anything I have seen before," he finally said.

Irene smiled wickedly. "That's what I hoped for." She took his arm, because he appeared to be frozen, and led him through to the ballroom. Everywhere they went, people stopped and stared.

"Is that the Crown Prince? Who is he _with_?"

"Who would _dare_?"

Irene smiled. She would not break her promise not to reveal herself (it was too deliciously fun to watch everyone wonder), but she had certainly put paid to the idea that she was a meek woman, content to sit back and follow the rules he laid out for her. Wilhelm glanced down at her. "I suppose," he finally said, "I could not expect you to stay in the background."

"No, I don't suppose you could," Irene said, holding out her hand. "Tonight you will be the man dancing with the most alluring woman in the room, as I promised."


	30. Chapter 30

From Aleine Skyfire - "Very well, the joke is on me."

A/N Most Holmes fans tend to rate the Mazarin Stone as one of the worst stories (personally, I can't stand it), and this is an attempt to explain why it's so obviously different from the other stories in the Canon.

* * *

While the lack of any interesting cases sometimes proved disastrous for my friend Sherlock Holmes's health and well-being, I occasionally found the times in between cases to be a useful, even necessary, period of relaxation. It allowed me to study the advances in medicine which were seemingly invented almost daily, and to write up as many of our adventures as I could. Now that Holmes allowed me to publish them again, I could hardly refuse to provide the public with new stories. I was pleased to say they were as popular as ever, if not more so.

Holmes, however, did not feel the same way. He watched me languidly for a time before saying, "I hardly think that case deserves all the effort you are putting into writing it. It was a simple affair."

"It had some factors of interest, though. Even you admitted as much," I said, not needing to question how he knew which case I was writing.

Holmes sighed, and I knew from the sound that he was in the mood to pick an argument merely to drive away boredom. While on occasion, these discussions were interesting in their own right – no one was as good a devil's advocate as Holmes, who could argue both sides of an issue with equal skill and logic – when he chose to do so about my writing skills, it continued to rankle. He admitted he knew nothing about the finer points of modern literature and less about what the public was currently interested in reading. Yet he insisted in attempting to prove himself correct in his opinion that my stories were mere popular fodder. "I suppose it did have those factors of romanticism which the British public seems to find so compelling," he said wearily. "I do wish you would use your pen to try and encourage them to _learn_ something of logic and reasoning from them."

"Holmes, I am not trying to write a textbook on deduction," I said, tired of the attitude he always displayed toward work which he knew was important to me. "In fact, I believe you said _you_ would do so."

"When I am retired, Watson, no sooner," Holmes said. "But there is an opportunity here, once which you are ignoring in favor of these…serialized adventures which have me running around the city as if I was some sort of vigilante!"

"Oh, come, Holmes, you cannot argue that it is not an accurate portrait," I said. I had endeavored to portray him much as he was, and was pleased with the result. Many clients had later said they felt comfortable approaching Holmes because they felt they knew him already from reading my stories in the _Strand._

"Accurate?" he sneered. "In personality, perhaps, but hardly in ability! What your public is reading, Doctor, is an untruth at best, a travesty at worst!"

I was becoming angry at this point; had he given me his permission to publish stories again only to belittle them in front of me? However, I knew better than to let him know of my reaction, and merely crumpled up the story in front of me heatedly. I pulled out another piece of paper and began to write speedily, intent on showing him he was ill-equipped to argue with me on this point. He did not know the general quality of detective stories about, but I did. I had read many, in the years before I knew him, always rather annoyed with the seemingly miraculous explanations for crimes the detective in question found. They were generally poorly written, and a large part of my inspiration for writing, once I had the good fortune of meeting Holmes, was the desire to read a good detective story. I smiled wickedly to myself as I set out to write a story that was as full of plot holes and poor grammar as any I had read in the penny dreadfuls. I believed that would show him how mistaken he was in his opinion of my writing.

I wrote for the rest of the day, finishing with a flourish long after Holmes had retired to bed. I took an almost savage pleasure, not only in not speaking to him for the rest of the day, but in the final result. It showed us both in the worst possible light and was so poorly written even I could barely read it back. I titled it _The Mazarin Stone_ and left it by Holmes's armchair so he would have no choice but to read it. No doubt he would realize when he did that I was doing him many favors by working so hard on his public image.

By the next day, my anger had cooled, and I was more inclined to see the whole affair with more humor. It was, after all, an argument we had had many times, and we would never see eye to eye on it. I chuckled to myself, thinking of the terrible story I had written the previous day, imagining Holmes's reaction when he read it and anticipating a good laugh over how much worse we both came across.

However, when I entered the sitting room, I found Holmes in his armchair with no sign of my story. I began to grow worried. Maybe he was truly was angry and had thrown it in the fire? I was beginning to regret my rash actions in writing something so terrible when he turned around. "Ah, Watson, there you are. I must say, I apologize for my actions yesterday. I was terribly bored and I assure you, I did not mean to be so disparaging of your writing."

"I accept your apology," I said. "I believe I overreacted as well."

Holmes smiled. "As a way to prove my good faith, I sent the story you left for me to your publisher. I don't wish you to stop, old friend."

I believe I could feel my face turning pale. "You – you sent it to my publisher?" I asked.

"Yes, of course," Holmes said. "I was sure I remembered you saying you owed them a new story."

"Yes, but," I started, then cleared my throat. "I wrote that story yesterday in anger, after you said my stories were a joke. I wanted to show you how much worse your portrayal on paper could be, and so I purposefully wrote the worst story I could. We neither of us come across very well in it."

Holmes's thin cheeks began to pale as well. "Oh…Watson, I am sorry. I didn't know. Perhaps we can try and intercept it?"

I sighed. "No, they will certainly ask for a replacement and I don't have one ready. That one shall have to do." I laughed, trying to see the humor in it. "Perhaps everyone will blame Doyle instead of me."

"Very well," Holmes said. "If you're sure, Watson. In any case, it appears the joke is on me."

"I suppose so," I said. "It does seem as if it is a parody rather than a true account."

"If even Dickens had his failures, I suppose Dr. Watson must as well," Holmes said. "I have had my fair share as well." He took out his violin with an air of finality and began to play a series of my favorites, thus driving away all thoughts of writing and reputations for the rest of the afternoon.


	31. Chapter 31

From Hades Lord of the Dead - The finale.

A/N I'm having trouble with my reviews, I can see that I'm getting them but I can't see or answer any from less than a day ago, so if I haven't answered you, it's because of that. I apologize, and I really appreciate every one! I had a ton of fun this year, again, reading everyone's responses and taking part! For background info on this response, the OBE was first awarded in 1917. Until next year!

* * *

I retrieved the post one spring morning in 1919, only to find a large, gilded envelope bearing the royal seal. I was hardly a stranger to noble correspondence; during the course of Holmes's career, he had received many such missives from various ruling houses throughout Europe, but in the years since his retirement, they had become somewhat less common. No doubt he would find this interruption to his routine irritating.

However, as I opened the envelope (years of Holmes going through my correspondence surely meant I was justified in doing the same. Particularly when I knew it would end up in the fire unopened if I did not), I thought this was something he really ought to listen to. Now, all I had to do was convince him to accompany me to London; no easy feat. When he had retired, he insisted he would not return save for the most important reasons, and so far he had kept his word, returning only to meet me at the train station when I was discharged.

"Holmes?" I asked, coming into the cottage and making sure I hid the envelope in my coat. "I was wondering if you might accompany me into London in a couple of weeks?"

Holmes looked at me warily. "London, Watson? Why?"

I hastily schooled my expression into innocence. Many people might have said that trying to lie to Sherlock Holmes was a fool's errand at best, but I had been sharing living arrangements with him for so long, I believe I must have learned _something_ about how to fool him. "I have received an invitation," I finally said.

"An invitation? To what?" Holmes asked. "I must say, Watson, you are acting very oddly."

"To…a ceremony," I said, casting my mind around for inspiration. "Honoring servicemen in the war," I finished.

"Oh," Holmes said, somewhat mollified. "Well, in that case….I mean, of course I will go with you. I must say, you deserve some sort of honors, Watson, after all the service you gave to Great Britain."

One pleasant effect of Holmes's retirement was that he was much more inclined to be kind toward others' accomplishments. I believe, although he never said, that he was truly afraid for my safety while I was at war in France, and now that I had returned safely, I would likely be able to ask him for anything. Not, that I would ever take advantage of this for my own gain. I am a gentleman, after all.

"Excellent," I said. "I shall get our train tickets. The ceremony should not take much more than a few hours, and I have no more wish to attend a reception than you do."

Holmes looked visibly relieved, and I smiled. I confess I could hardly wait to see his face when he realized _he_ was the one who was to be honored, not I.

Two weeks later, Holmes and I found ourselves in the entrance hall of Buckingham Palace, where we were waved through by a guard after I showed our invitation. Holmes showed remarkably little interest in the whole affair, which I was grateful for, as it allowed me to get us into the audience hall without any argument. Now all we had to do was find our seats.

The hall was filled with august personages, many of whom were also apparently being honored, and Holmes looked around with interest. "I don't see many servicemen, Watson," he said.

"Oh, well, I imagine they are all dressed in civilian clothes," I said quickly, picking up my program. I found Holmes's name, halfway down the list, and took a breath. There was no hiding it anymore, and I watched Holmes read through his own program with some trepidation.

"Watson, I don't find your name," Holmes began. "Where-" he broke off when he came to his own name and looked at me questioningly. "Watson, what is this?"

I smiled. "I am sorry, Holmes. I did not think you would agree to come otherwise. They are awarding the Order of the British Empire. You remember the award?"

Holmes sniffed. "Yes, a new invention, is it not, Watson?"

"For civilians who have distinguished themselves in service to the Crown," I responded. "I think no one could qualify as much as you, Holmes, even you must admit that. You have spent your life in service to the British public."

"You know that is not why I chose my profession," he said.

"I know," I said. I knew too well that he was interested in the problem before anything else. But still, he was the foremost detective of his age. Why should he not be honored for it?

The announcer cleared his throat, and called, "For diverse services to the British Crown, public and others, we grant Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, the status of Officer of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire."

Applause rang out, polite, as it was a court setting, and I smiled as Holmes went up to the stage to receive his award. He managed to smile, holding up the small cross for a commemorative photograph before retaking his seat next to me. "Quite a handsome thing," he remarked, showing me the cross with its ribbon to hang around his neck.

"Yes, indeed," I said. "Congratulations, old friend. You deserve it."

"Thank you," he said. "I suppose it is gratifying, in its way. One never realizes the effect one has on people. It is an interesting study, the unexpected effects of all our actions."

"I suppose so," I said, watching the next honoree.

"For instance," Holmes continued, "I don't think any of these people would have heard of me if not for your stories. Mycroft said even Her late Majesty enjoyed them immensely, and she enjoyed very little, from what I'm told."

I laughed aloud at his irreverence and hastily coughed to hide it as the people sitting in front of us turned around, scandalized. "So I suppose what I'm saying, Watson, is that they really ought to give you one too," Holmes finished. "We are a partnership, however much people refuse to believe it."

"Well, thank you, Holmes," I said, a little taken aback. He was not one for showing much affection, and he had been so thoroughly disparaging of my stories over the years that this assertion that we were partners meant a great deal to me. "I truly cannot think of a better finale to your career, Holmes."

"Neither can I," Holmes said. "Sussex has been most beneficial for both of us, and retirement is more enjoyable than I had hoped."

"That is not what I meant and you know it," I said in an undertone, and Holmes laughed. We really were both correct, each in our own way, I suppose, and I sat back to watch the remaining honorees with a smile. Regardless of what Holmes said, it was a well-deserved award and long past time those in power honored him for his years of service.


End file.
